All Along
by randomperson5972
Summary: John comes to Hogwarts full of excitement and anticipation, but after what the first war with Voldemort does to his family he finds himself drifting apart from his friends and feeling more and more alone. Sherlock has trained himself to feel comfortable with loneliness, a solitary but brilliant budding detective. When they meet each other, all that changes.
1. Chapter 1

John ran his thumb along the red wax seal, which was now long broken, smoothing the contours together again so the unity of the design as restored—a lion, a badger, an eagle, and a serpent united around the letter H. _Hogwarts._ He slid the thick parchment out from the envelope yet another time, now simply to admire the emerald ink in which his name was printed at the top. Reading the letter was unnecessary at this point, he knew the entire message by heart, just as so many other Hogwarts students had at age eleven. He was really going, it was the dream he'd been waiting for ever since his parents began to tell him stories about the school as a toddler.

Stretching out his arms behind him, John relaxed backward on his bed, smiling serenely up at the ceiling. The steady thumping of the Weird Sisters from Harry's room next door suddenly subsided, and his bedroom seemed much calmer, much more quiet. Yes, nothing could disrupt this feeling of contentedness, nothing...except the tone in his mother's voice, now audible from the kitchen downstairs in the absence of Harry's drums and bagpipes.

John frowned, getting up from his bed to move closer to the door. She sounded anxious, uncertain.

"But really, I can't help by wonder if it'll be safe for them there?" she said.

John's father's voice responded, calm and measured. "Abigail, there is no safer place. Hogwarts has Dumbledore, and whenever there have been threats to the school there's been talk of them shutting it down. No one's saying that now, which means the school governors must be sure the students will be safe, or as safe as anyone can be anymore."

"But I don't like having them away, not with so many Death Eaters everywhere, and John's so young...it'll be his first year..."

"And he's dreamed of this for how long? What else are we going to do? We can't keep him at home, Hogwarts is probably safer with Dumbledore."

"I'd just rather have them near me...," John's mother trailed off, sounding insecure.

"Abigail, think," said his dad's voice gently. "How often are we home? The Auror office keeps us so busy, and we have to be out there fighting. Having Harry and John home isn't going to keep them any safer from You-Know-Who or the Death Eaters, it's only going to scare them. And we have their educations to think about. And I _know _he's more powerful than ever now, but we've raised them just as we always would have for the past eleven years."

"They're still just children." The sentence was barely loud enough for John to make out.

"Exactly. This is still part of their childhood, let them have it."

There was silence, and John wondered if Harry had heard any of that from next door. The sound of his father's voice was heard saying something indistinct a moment later, but John's head was buzzing too loudly for him to listen. Not going to Hogwarts? Would they really consider not letting him, when he'd just gotten his letter today? John could hardly imagine that You-Know-Who could be so powerful so as to make his mother think he shouldn't go to school...

_But it won't happen, _he reassured himself. No, his dad had calmed his mum down. It would all be fine, and in nearly a month he'd be on the Hogwarts Express, puffing along the English and Scottish countryside to that hallowed school. Where there were trick stairs and ghosts, and Quidditch matches and Charms classes, and warm common rooms with soft chairs and blankets in winter, and sunlit grounds to run around in spring, and tables laid full of desserts and pumpkin juice at the end of the day, and everything else Harry had told him about when she had come home for Christmas after her very first term, an excited eleven-year-old full of stories for her six-year-old brother.

John leaned out of the window as far as he could go, waving to his parents emphatically, no fear in the giant grin on his face. Soon, however, the scarlet steam engine had pulled out of the station, and he could see them no longer. He turned, ready to find a seat with his big sister.

"Har—?" He blinked. Harry wasn't standing there anymore, and it took John a full moment to realize she must have already headed off with her friends. Slightly hurt, he heaved at his trunk, realizing he'd have to find a place to sit on his own. He looked into the compartments on either side of him, but they were both full, full of very loud, much older students. A few more tentative steps down the hall showed him that the next two were full, too, and a few more revealed yet more train compartments void of vacancies. Starting o feel worried now, John dragged his trunk onward. Peering into the next compartment, he saw a girl his age with a light brown ponytail pause in talking to the boy across from her and look up at him. He smiled a bit shiftily at her, and she got up from her seat and slid the glass door open.

"Hi," she said. "Do you need a place to sit? You can come in with us."

"Thank you," said John, relieved, and he followed her in. With the help of the girl and the two other boys sitting in the compartment, he managed to lift his trunk up onto the rack with the others' things.

"I'm Sarah," said the girl.

"I'm John," he answered, sitting down across from her.

"Mike," said the boy next to him.

"I'm Yasha. That's my owl," said the last boy proudly, nodding at the eagle owl sitting regally in a cage with the luggage.

"Cool," said John. "My older sister has one, but I didn't get my own, I'm just supposed to share with her."

"What house do you think you'll be in, John?" asked Sarah eagerly. "We were all just talking about it."

John smiled a little awkwardly, but he didn't feel awkward, not at all as he began to talk with these other first years about the houses. Gryffindor, he told them. His family had been a mix, but he was sure that's where he'd belong.

Sherlock Holmes was very different from the other first years amassed outside the Great Hall, guarded by Hagrid's immense figure as they awaited Professor McGonagall, though you wouldn't have been able to tell from merely observing him-unless you happened to be him, with exceptional powers of observation to the verge of impossibility for someone of such a young age, in which case such observing would have been unnecessary. Yes, he was perhaps skinny for his age, perhaps giving off the air of being more agile than his peers, and his hair made his head among the darkest and most tousled of those towered over by Hagrid there. Sherlock Holmes was just as frightened as the other new students, and his knees were just as likely to buckle, his shoulders just as likely to shake, though the castle's air was still warm with the end of summer reaching its fingers into the halls. The true difference lay in his thoughts, which were astronomically different from those of the other children around him. While most of them were concentrated on the fact that they were feeling a bit queasy at the moment, Sherlock (who hadn't eaten anything for lunch) was calming himself by making deductions about the people and objects around him.

_Cleaned manually_, he remarked to himself with regards to the ceiling, floor, and picture frames around him. _Even though they could use magic. The artist was low on funds when he painted that witch, borrowing paints from a friend...the paint itself is of perfect quality for that time period, but it was clearly applied with an old brush, one he would otherwise have replaced, and the panel isn't of the same thickness as those hung near it, not meant for art..._

_How do you know the painter was a he, Sherlock? _says the voice of his older brother Mycroft in his head. _Don't make assumptions, you must have proof that shows overwhelming probability_, the voice sneers, challenging him to be more thorough.

_The way he's painted the woman's body_, Sherlock answers_. It clearly shows knowledge of the human form, but it is slightly unrealistic, especially in the hips and waist, a woman would have be familiar enough with her own shape to paint it more accurately. Also, the clear idealization._

_ That's not enough, _says Mycroft, _a woman may have wanted to flatter herself, _and Sherlock sighs inwardly, a sigh that sounds solid and unruffled by nerves inside his head.

_Also the height. The painting must have been done by someone of a much taller height that what would have been typical for a woman in this time period in Europe, and they didn't stand on a block or a ladder, the angle they viewed the subject from would have changed, and therefore the lighting slightly. The painting doesn't show any inconsistencies in lighting, it was all painted from the same level._

Sherlock can't imagine that Mycroft would have any more complaints about his argument, so he moved on to observe his peers more closely.

_That's boy's half-blood. The mother is a muggle, wizard father, they both saw him off on the platform, even though his mother is thinking of leaving his father...he is completely unaware, of course. Ate three chocolate frogs on the train here, and kept all the cards. Most certainly bound for Hufflepuff..._

Sherlock's insides went cold. _The Sorting_. Ever since Mycroft had gotten the letter and promptly been marched off the Slytherin, Sherlock had fantasized about what house he'd go to. Many of the famous wizards and witches he'd read about at first had all been from Gryffindor, but he was sure that was mainly due to historical bias, and as he read more thoroughly about the Wizarding World as he got older, he began to see more and more names hailing from Ravenclaw. That, of course, would be his chosen house, if such a thing could be chosen...he didn't want to, but too often Sherlock had imagined what it would feel like if all Mycroft's snide insults were proven true, if he really was the idiot he'd always said he was...and Mycroft himself didn't even get chosen for Ravenclaw, and he saw things Sherlock never caught and could understand everything so much faster than he did. Sherlock looked around at the other faces near him, for a different reason this time, wondering how many of them would be taken by Ravenclaw and how smart they must be...

"Ah, yes, thank you, Hagrid," said a brisk voice above the silence of terrified first years, and Sherlock looked up to see a witch with a tall and pointed, emerald-green hat had appeared, talking to the half-giant man who had brought them there with the boats across the lake, the one the Merpeople had seemed to respect more than other wizards, judging by the different shapes he had seen in the water over the edge of the boat and their behavior.

After a brief word to her, the man named Hagrid turned and pulled open the large door the Great Hall, disappearing inside. There was quiet murmur of talk as all the first years craned their neck to get a glimpse of it around his turned back, but silence fell again as the witch surveyed them.

"Welcome to Hogwarts," she said to the small crowd. "I am about to lead you into the Great Hall, where the start of term banquet will soon begin. Before you may take your seats, however, and the feast commence, you must be Sorted into your houses. There are four houses at Hogwarts: Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, and Slytherin. Students are selected for each house based on certain traits they possess, and being chosen for any of the houses represents a great honor. While you are here at Hogwarts, your house will be something like your family. You will eat at your house table, sleep in the house dormitory, and earn house points for your achievements throughout the school year."

She gazed at all of their nervous, apprehensive faces. Some, Sherlock could tell, had been waiting for their Sorting for years, just as he had—others seemed to have no idea what was in store. He wondered how surprised they would be when they realized all they had to do was try on a hat.

"Now," said the witch, who Sherlock just realized had yet to introduce herself, "If you would please form a line, and follow me." With a flourish of her wand, the doors slid open majestically, and Sherlock melded into a line with the other first years to follow her inside the Great Hall.

It seemed larger to him than it had in books, more imposing and impressive, but warm and inviting too...it was, however, filled with people, and Sherlock couldn't help but feel that tonight was going to be an extremely difficult night on which to remain anonymous.

They followed the witch in the emerald hat to the end of the hall, which seemed, at least to the anxious new arrivals, to go on for twice the length of the lake. Finally, they all halted in front of the witch, who had picked up a long roll of parchment from a stool on which the Sorting Hat was perched.

Most of the students were looking at the witch expectantly, but it was the hat that spoke first, a mouth appearing as it burst into song. Sherlock, however, had little interest in the song, and instead began to look around the hall more carefully. Within a few moments, his eyes had found Dumbledore, who was seated at the very middle of the table in a rather regal chair, wearing magnificent robes of deep purple and silver thread that fell to the floor. Sherlock stared at him curiously and unabashedly, noticing that he had been away from the school for well over a month until a few hours ago, obviously something to do with the fight against He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. And some sort of secret organization was involved...but no, there was more to that...this man had secrets, several that he had never told anyone, and one that...hm, interesting.

Dumbledore abruptly made eye contact with Sherlock, and Sherlock was taken aback by the piercing, deconstructing gaze of his bright blue eyes. But, somehow, it was not unkind, and Dumbledore gave him a half-smile from the table up above him, seemingly not at all perturbed by Sherlock's staring.

"When I call you name—" Sherlock jerked his attention back as the witch addressed them again, now that the hat was obviously done with its song, "—please come to the front and sit down on the stool. You will try on the hat, and then you will be sorted into your house.

"Banks, Harvey."

Harvey Banks made his way to the front, and tentatively sat down on the stool. The witch placed the hat on his head, and within a few moments it shouted out "Slytherin!"

Sherlock's gut clenched. Was he going to Slytherin? Surely not Hufflepuff. Oh, no, he was most certainly headed for Hufflepuff. No other house would take him, and wasn't Hufflepuff the one for the extras? Mycroft was always first to remind him how slow he was, how cowardly and sniveling a child, how he would never hold up in Slytherin.

"Bletchley, Eileen."

Eileen Bletchley, who was perhaps one of the palest of the terrified students gathered there, stumbled up to the front, and the hat was placed on her head. "Ravenclaw!" it cried.

The first Ravenclaw, only two in. Sherlock stared at her with sudden interest as she hurried off to the table that was applauding her loudly, but for once he couldn't deduce anything at all. Was he that scared? So scared he wasn't thinking straight? Surely not, he thought to himself, though his thoughts began to panic as it occurred to him. Sherlock closed his eyes tightly and tried to calm himself again, make himself just as calm as he had been in the entrance hall. Blocking out everything around him, he missed the next several people to be sorted.

"Griffin, Jack."

Jack Griffin was proclaimed a Slytherin, and Sherlock suddenly came back to himself and realized that his name must be coming soon.

"Hassan, Ceylan."

Sherlock missed what house Ceylan Hassan was sorted into, but his own named reached his ears clearly enough.

"Holmes, Sherlock."

Immediately Sherlock registered the slight groan that seemed to come from a few students; apparently Mycroft was (unsurprisingly) unpopular, and a few of had made the connection between their last names and the oddness of their first ones. As he walked to the stool in front, however, his gait was quite steady, and he was calm enough have emotion left over to even feel a bit foolish as the gigantic hat fell over his ears.

"Hmm," said a small voice, one that Sherlock was sure was near enough to only his ears to be heard. "Oh, well, there's certainly a clear choice here, but I can see traces of all the houses in you...yes, certainly..."

Sherlock wasn't sure what to think of that. Was he going to be a hatstall?

The hat was silent for several moments, evidently preferring to keep its thoughts to itself rather than voice them. It could hardly have been a few seconds, but to Sherlock it seemed to take all the time it had taken to cross the Great Hall _and_ the lake before the hat shouted

"RAVENCLAW!"

Sherlock beamed, but quickly hid it in embarrassment, returning the hat to the presiding witch and guided to his proper table by the cheers of his fellow Ravenclaws. Once he had sat down and exhaled shakily, he looked up, scanning the Slytherin table for Mycroft. He'd found him soon enough, just as the next name, Jennings, Sabrina, was called. Sitting erect, the Head Boy badge flashing in the candlelight, there was something akin to a smirk on Mycroft's lips as he looked over at Sherlock lazily. His younger brother returned the look with one of defiance, then started as Sabrina Jennings sat down next to him, evidently having just been sorted into Ravenclaw as well.

The rest of the Sorting passed by with Sherlock drifting in and out of attention, occasionally registering where another of his fellow students had been placed, but mostly captivated by his own thoughts. A_ Ravenclaw_, he'd been made a _Ravenclaw_...apparently he was cut out for this school after all, and apparently the hat thought he would fit in with the other students selected for their intelligence. Sherlock didn't know if he'd ever felt that much pride swell within him before.

Soon there was only a handfull of people left to be sorted. Sherlock stared at the small group, a girl with dark brown hair and eyes who was chewing on her bottom lip, a blond boy who seemed both nervous and excited, and a boy whose hair was just as dark as Sherlock's, but a good deal neater.

Sherlock half-listened as "Watson, John" was proclaimed a Gryffindor, "Wong, Terry," went to Hufflepuff, and the Sorting concluded with "Zayn, Janine," going to Slytherin. He was ready for the school to get this tedious eating bit out of the way so that he could start exploring the castle.

"Welcome, welcome all of you to Hogwarts!" Sherlock looked up to see that Dumbledore had now stood, his arms spread wide as he addressed the school. "To the newest additions to our family—congratulations, and welcome! To all the old faces-welcome back. We're about the start the term with our standard banquet, but before the food distracts us too much, I do have a few words to say."

Suddenly the headmaster's tone was much graver, and he viewed them all somberly, but not ungently, from over the edges of his half-moon spectacles.

"As all of you know, Lord Voldemort's forces are gaining yet more power."

There was a collective gasp from everyone there at the sound of the name, but Dumbledore continued on.

"The Dark Lord's regime has been gaining strength, and outside the gates of Hogwarts, I am sorry to say that his threat challenges our world like no dark force ever has before. Of course, we have all lived with this knowledge for years now. Voldemort's rise to power was gradual, insidious, but it now has taken a firm hold over the country." He paused, letting his words sink in. "It is _imperative_ that our ties together at this school remain strong, just as it is necessary they remain so between all witches and wizards outside these walls. Manipulation, uncertainty, suspicion and mistrust, this is how Voldemort operates. These are things we can _fight_, however, if we unite even more powerfully through friendship, trust, caring, and love. Our new students have just been divided up by qualities all equally valuable...bravery, intelligence, loyalty, and shrewdness and confidence...these are virtues I am sure that all of us possess, we simply must find them within ourselves.

"Times may seem dark throughout this year. It is my sincere hope, and ever my goal, however that Lord Voldemort's reign soon be at its end. Whenever you are frightened or in some way hurt by his doings, I urge each and every one of you to look for and find these qualities within yourselves, and to reach out to your classmates and teachers for support, friendship, and love to carry you through these troubled times.

"Perhaps this was a bit long-winded for me to say to before our feast, but I suspected that some of you may have needed those words, especially after we have all spent a summer apart." Dumbledore's gaze was just as piercing as it had been when Sherlock had met it just before his Sorting, but now the young boy felt as if it were directed towards everyone in the hall, scanning them all both collectively and individually. "What I ask of you is not impossible or radical...indeed, I believe it to be the natural instinct of all people. Don't try to face someone like Voldemort alone. The greatest strength will come from what we can give each other, it is the shared strength of love."

Dumbledore clasped his hands in front of his long, silver beard, looking down at all of them with a kindly smile curving out from under his moustache. After a lengthy pause, he continued. "And now, I am not to deprive you of the wonderful food that I know has been prepared. Please, _tuck in_."

As he said it, the plates in front of them filled with food, huge assortments of a whole manner of things Sherlock had never had access to all at once before. He wasn't very interested in eating at the moment, however. Sherlock was thinking over the headmaster's words, wondering what he thought of them. It seemed awfully optimistic to him, and he rather thought that Dumbledore had overestimated the students as he watched them quickly forget what they had just been told and turn to the food. Chatter started up all around Sherlock immediately, and he tuned out once more as he began to watch the people around the hall. Dumbledore had immediately been pulled into conversation by the witch who had conducted the Sorting, leaning in closely to talk to her, his own plate remaining bare. Sherlock rested his head on a hand a gazed around the hall absently. This school...Sherlock didn't know what he'd stepped into, but it had to be better than what he was leaving behind.

**Author's Note: So...I've decided to have a go at this, Sherlock and John at Hogwarts. The next chapter has pretty much been written, so it'll probably be up soon, but unfortunately after that I can make no promises for update frequency. I've written two other Sherlock/Harry Potter crossovers, but those aren't set in the same universe as this (just so you know). Reviews are lovely!**


	2. Chapter 2

John looked down at his match a bit dolefully, but his lack of success with their current Transfiguration lesson wasn't enough to dampen his spirits. Professor McGonagall, the decorous witch who had greeted them at the Entrance Hall and conducted the Sorting, had given each of the Gryffindor first years a match from a small box on her desk and then set them the task of transfiguring it into a needle, after a short demonstration. John hadn't quite gotten the hang of the spell yet, but he had managed to convince himself that his match was looking a bit paler, perhaps closer to silver in color, even if the tip was just as blunt and rough. A few of the other first years seemed to have been able to make minor changes to their matches, but Professor McGonagall had yet to offer anyone praise.

"Come on, Nearly-Headless Nick told me how to get into the kitchens!" he whispered to Sarah excitedly once the lesson had ended and they were out in the wide castle halls again, coming up behind her with his bag slung haphazardly across one shoulder. Of the other first years John had met on the train, Sarah had been the only other one to be Sorted into Gryffindor as well, and therefore in his Transfiguration class.

"The kitchens? Isn't lunch after Charms?" she asked.

"Yeah, but we don't need to get food or anything, I just want to look around."

"Are students even allowed in there?"

"Where's your sense of adventure, Sarah?" he asked playfully, leading her down the hall in the opposite direction of the Charms wing. John could catch her smile out of the corner of his eye.

"There's apparently this painting of fruit, and if you tickle the pear, you can get in," he said over his shoulder.

"Tickle the pear?" laughed Sarah.

"Why not?" he asked her. He could imagine the way she was shaking her head with eyes on the floor and a slight lift to her lips without turning around.

Nearly-Headless Nick had said that it off a passageway near the Great Hall, down a hallway that lead away from the path you would take to the Gryffindor common room. When John had imagined the layout, however, it had been on a somewhat smaller scale from the reality of Hogwarts, as he was still not used to such vast, elaborate buildings.

"So if you pass the Great Hall…," he muttered to himself as he did so, "and then go like you're going to our common room…." He led Sarah to the left, walking towards the marble staircase, trying to mask the uncertainty that was suddenly creeping in. He took a right, but he could tell that Sarah was starting to suspect him of not knowing entirely where he was going.

They were walking down a hallway just off the main corridor where a few students were transitioning to the next class, John trying to get far enough in front of Sarah so that he could see what was at the end without her realizing he was actually scouting out areas he had never been in before. Suddenly, his breath caught and pulse spiked as he spotted a pair of lamp-like, yellow eyes peering at him from a corner.

"It's Mrs. Norris!" he hissed to Sarah. "Back, back, back!"

She didn't need telling twice. Within their first week, all the first years had been quick to learn that you never want to be found alone with Mrs. Norris in a part of the castle you haven't been before, especially if that first person to find you is Filch (which it always is).

The two of them scrambled back the way they had come, and started to ascend the marble staircases, knowing that would be how to be taken the most quickly and farthest away from the caretaker's cat's luminous eyes.

"John, where are we going?" asked Sarah after they had moved onto a third staircase, which had just detached itself from the landing and was gliding along towards the opposite side of the hall.

"Just away from Mrs. Norris," he replied.

"Don't you think you're being a bit extreme? I think we can at least go in the same direction of our next class. We don't need to get _that_ far away from her."

"A flight?" asked a voice with a gasp, and the two of them turned, having just stepped onto the landing. They were standing across from a stone wall with several gold-framed paintings, but the oddest and most out-of-place of their occupants appeared to have been the one to just interject. He was a rather short, entirely armor-clad knight brandishing a sword that was more like a dagger, standing in stark contrast against the ballerinas in different shades of blue as if he had just strode in from a neighboring stretch of canvass. "Is this cowardice true? Do you young rogues flee from another rather than stand and fight?" he demanded.

"Er," said John.

"Actually, we were just trying to find the kitchens," said Sarah quickly.

"The kitchens? But I know of just the place for such culinary needs!" cried the knight, jumping erect with pleasure. "Follow me, and I shall aid you in your quest!"

With not much more than raised eyebrows in eachother's directions, the two Gryffindors followed the squat knight as he took off through the paintings lining the hallway, several of which's subjects grumbled in protest as he passed.

The knight was moving fairly fast for one who was wearing such bulky armor, as John was reminded by the constant clanking as they ran after him. Through hallways lit by bracketed torches, past a drifting, morose looking ghost of a young woman with long and flowing translucent hair, around corners where one tapestry ended and another began, and threading around the other students walking leisurely to class, John and Sarah followed him. After a few minutes of jogging they had coming to more stairs that John didn't think he'd ever seen before.

John was in front, alongside the knight and taking the steps two at a time, when suddenly he felt a powerful, sucking feeling engulf his left leg and his body lost balance. With a yelp of surprise, he was caught dead in his tracks, and only managed to stop himself falling over onto his face by windmilling his arms wildly. He looked down: his entire calf had sunk a foot down into a trick step on the staircase.

"Why do you tarry? We have yet to reach our gloried goal!" proclaimed the knight, leaning around the frame of a scene of the Amazon jungle with half his body already in the next painting.

"I…don't really think I can move immediately," said John, looking down at his leg as the base of his neck bloomed pink with embarrassment. Several of the older students who were climbing the staircases snickered, and Sarah covered her mouth with a hand to hide her giggles.

John was torn between embarrassment, irritation, and the uncomfortableness having half a leg stuck in a stone stair step causes. "How about we find the kitchens another time?" he asked.

A few hours later, a slight boy with dark curls walked briskly down the same stairs, jumping the trick step without any conscious thought. He had already mapped this part of the school in head, just as thoroughly as the architect would have drawn up the plans, perhaps even more so. A complex system of classrooms, corridors, and enchantments was being constructed in his brain to mirror the school's, and he had decided to use it as what he called a "mind palace." By associating information with a known place inside his mind, he could organize thoughts and make connections, ideally so that he would never forget anything he needed. It was a new project for him, but Sherlock had been thinking about the idea for some time, and now seemed the best opportunity he may meet in a while to create a mind palace, since he could use the layout of Hogwarts as a blueprint as he learned it.

At this particular moment, which was a time of evening past all class times but before students were required to adhere to curfew, Sherlock was in a towering mood. He often wandered out of the Ravenclaw common room or simply didn't return from the rest of the castle or grounds because there was more use in being somewhere else; however, this time he had left with a purpose. For his first few weeks at Hogwarts, Sherlock had mostly been exploring the school and learning all its ins and outs, finding out where to hide and where no other students would be, what enchantments to avoid and which could be useful later on, what was interesting and what was dull. He had already visited all the major destinations, such as the four house common rooms (even though he hadn't been inside them all), the library, the Owlery, the kitchens, and Dumbledore's office (this too he had just observed from the outside, however), but he hadn't completely explored the entire castle.

Sherlock glared at the first person he saw without even realizing he was doing it. He had been trying not to think about why he was so angry, but in trying not the think about it he had merely brought all the realizations that had been building up over the past days to the forefront of his mind. The other Ravenclaws…he had been so proud to be sorted into that house, convinced that everyone else there would be brilliant, a house of people like Mycroft to look up to and learn from—Sherlock glowered. _Mycroft_. He vaulted himself over the stone railing at the end of the staircase and landed on the next just as it departed from the landing, and heard someone behind him call out. He didn't turn, though, just kept walking.

Past the Great Hall, Sherlock headed down a staircase leading downwards and into the dungeons through a torch-lit archway. Just a few moments later, he had passed the potions classroom and was standing outside the entrance to the Slytherin common room. It was little more than a damp stretch of bare, black wall lit by torch flames on either side, but Sherlock didn't need to be able to see through it to know that there was something behind it. All magic leaves traces.

It took him about four tries to guess the password. After the wall had slid aside, Sherlock walked forwards and into the common room with assurance.

This was the first time that he had been inside, but Sherlock was unimpressed with the heavy, sloping walls that arched above his head and dangled lamps full of glowing green light. He stalked past the students reclined in armchairs near him without noticing the way some of them turned their heads and opened their mouths as if about the challenge him. He was heading to a darkened corner on the far side of the room, where a familiar profile was gazing into the fire beneath and elaborately carved mantelpiece of stone and ebony.

"Mycroft," he said upon reaching it, his voice full of contempt and belligerence.

"Little brother!" said Mycroft, looking up at him with eyebrows raised. "What brings you here to this _restricted _common room?"

Sherlock ignored his tone, only frowning more deeply. "You knew," he said simply, voice slightly quavering.

"I knew. I'm afraid you'll have to be more specific, Sherlock, if you want me to be able to explain a _particular_ something that I knew."

Sherlock crossed his arms, sick of this patronizing and sneering air. "You knew, all along, that I wasn't as stupid as you always made me believe."

Mycroft had his right hand on the handle of an umbrella, even though he was indoors, and he twirled its tip around on the floor so that it turned in slow circles back and forth. The witch sitting in a chair opposite him had been writing diligently on a long piece of parchment, but glanced up briefly at this out of the wavy, chestnut hair that framed her face before returning to her quill.

Mycroft sighed. "Is there something you wanted to tell me, Sherlock?"

"I only wanted to know why you acted like you thought I was an idiot when you knew full well that I wasn't, when you'd been at this school for six years and had enough time to see what even the Ravenclaws are like!"

"_You_ thought you were an idiot, too, Sherlock," said Mycroft wearily. "And I really did at first, you know. If you're slow to me, can you imagine what it's like for me to be around normal people all the time? I'm living in a world of goldfish," he said with an irate look around the common room. "Before I came to Hogwarts I had little to compare you to, and compared to me you're hardly perspicacious."

"But you saw what other people were like when you got here six years ago," insisted Sherlock.

"Yes, I did," answered Mycroft. "And I hardly saw reason to inflate your already blooming ego. You'd get here soon enough and take it however you would, and in the mean time you had something to aspire to. Was I really so wrong to get you that drive to improve?"

"Yes," seethed Sherlock. "It's not always your place to decide. You decided for mum and dad to leave. And now I see what you're like here, reigning from your head boy status like it's a throne."

"You'll soon learn it's the undercover work in the shadows that matters the most here, little brother," said Mycroft, flicking a speck of dust from the handle of his umbrella.

"I'm sick of you," said Sherlock. Without another word, he turned on his heel and stalked out of the common room.

Several seconds after the stone wall had slid shut behind him, the chestnut-haired witch turned to Mycroft, whose eyes were again focused on the fire with his fingers laced together under his chin. "You only say those things because you won't show you're proud of him," she said indifferently, hardly pulling her eyes away from the ancient runes essay she was composing.

Mycroft didn't give even a grunt of recognition that she had spoken.

Several hours later, the slight boy with dark curls still hadn't left the small room draped in dark blue hangings and filled with navy pillows that he had found on the seventh floor, just past a tapestry of trolls learning to ballet dance. It was dark, quiet, and solitary: a place where it was easy for him to shut off and ignore his emotions.


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: So sorry for the wait on this! I was working with my beta, and then, of course, as soon as she gets the chapter to me I lose internet because of the snow. Sigh. It's really great snow, though. So, hope you enjoy this one!**

Chapter 3

The corridors were dark, abandoned, and cavernous. Sherlock slunk through them silently, not even the paintings realizing he was there. He had cast a weak Disillusionment Charm over himself, but his limited practice meant that instead of making him blend in with his surroundings, the spell rendered him a fainter, slightly shimmering form against the dark walls. He hadn't been in this tower before; it was between Gryffindor Tower and the North Tower, but not nearly as tall as either of those two. He crept past several slumbering portraits, and then slipped open a heavy wooden door to slide inside its room. As he made to do so, however, something brushed the top of his hair, and he looked up to see what it was. The lowest leaf of a sprig of mistletoe was dangling down from the doorway.

Sherlock scowled and a crease appeared on the bridge of his nose. Unlike the rest of the first years, Sherlock was not at all enchanted by the festive decorations that had recently sprung up all around the castle, and he ignored the mistletoe in favor of finding out what the room held. Once inside, however, he saw it was just another disused classroom. On his way out, Sherlock paused. A step away from the door, one hand on the handle to pull it shut again, he pulled out his wand and muttered _Diffindo!_ under his breath. He deftly caught the mistletoe berries that fell from the ceiling and pocketed them—useful for potions.

Many of the rooms Sherlock had found and added to his mind palace were empty or just had a few desks and chairs, yet some stored useful, but mundane equipment for the teachers. Every once in a while, however, he would come across something interesting. About an hour after the mistletoe, Sherlock found a side hallway that was covered in a faint, golden mist. It wasn't exactly connected to the central paths most students would take, and he'd had to pull aside a few tapestries to find it. Sherlock doubted that students were expected to ever see it.

The golden mist hovered about a foot above the floor and extended up to the arched ceiling, and was completely silent. Larger flecks of light seemed to drift through it languidly, and Sherlock regarded it warily. He knew that sticking a hand into anything unknown in the magical world was generally a fairly bad idea—but suddenly, he felt a wicked grin seize his face, and he stepped straight into it.

The whole world turned upside down. Sherlock felt his hair fall away from his face and towards the floor as he saw his feet somehow holding him erect in the air. The mist was all around him now, and though he didn't feel anything, he understood that it had somehow seized him and flipped his orientation of up and down. For several minutes, Sherlock was content to just stay there, observing the mist passively and wondering how it had done that. After this became boring, however, he started to think about how to get down.

He could try levitating himself away from the mist, but he doubted that would restore which way was up and which was down. He could try casting a spell to blow it away, and perhaps in its absence things would reset themselves. But stepping into the mist had put him in this position—wasn't it logical to assume that he could step right out of it again?

Sherlock moved a foot, and, feeling some resistance, wrenched it free to take a step out of the mist. Immediately, everything returned to how it had been before. The light of the mist winked playfully back at him. Sherlock's face was flushed from the blood rushing to his head and then receding, and he grinned. This, now _this,_ was good.

Another hour later, Sherlock had found an owl hiding where it shouldn't be, a cabinet he was quite sure contained a boggart (and which he didn't disturb), a secret passage behind a large tapestry that he had followed and seen led to Hogsmeade, and a hidden swimming pool. As Sherlock stepped into the dark and echoey chamber, light flashed off the gently rippling surface, and he saw that the water was lit from the bottom by sparsely-scattered clusters of a sort of bioluminescent flower. There were no torches on the walls or other sources of light, nor towels or benches by the pool's edge; yet the pool was long and fairly deep, and Sherlock was sure there would be room for several students to swim if they all found their way here. Once again, however, it didn't seem that they were meant to.

Leaving the pool, Sherlock sneaked down another few staircases to find himself on the third floor. This was one of the last places he needed to survey—the rest were already carefully noted as his mind palace.

Sherlock didn't have to go far down the right-hand side before he found a locked door, something fairly odd in and of itself at Hogwarts. He pulled out his wand again and whispered "_Alohomora_," barely more than a breath. The lock clicked quietly, and Sherlock slid between the weighty door and the stone wall. He was in a narrow, fairly short corridor coming to an end in a bare stone wall, and it seemed more of a room than a corridor. There were no other doors or hallways branching off from it. He walked down to the end, however, and soon saw that there was a small trapdoor built into the floor. Curious, Sherlock surveyed the rest of the corridor, but everything else was bare. The square of wood that made up the trapdoor's lid was barely big enough for a full-grown man, especially one with broad shoulders, but it left ample room for an eleven-year-old like Sherlock. He slid a finger against the iron clasp and pulled it open, lifting the heavy weight with both arms. The dust muffled the sound as the trapdoor fell against the floor, and Sherlock peered down beneath him. Everything was dark. He cast a light, and with a flick of his wand, sent a beam down that briefly lit up the room below. It seemed to be empty, and Sherlock caught a glimpse of the floor several meters down.

_Here goes nothing_, Sherlock thought to himself. Then he quickly cast a cushioning charm and lowered himself into the empty air, feet first. He let go.

There was only a second, perhaps a fraction more, during which Sherlock fell through the air before making contact with his own enchantment. It felt rather like suddenly encountering a large airbag before he made it to the floor. Once there, he pulled himself up and said "_Lumos_."

As he had thought, the room was entirely empty. It was slightly smaller than one of the school classrooms, but a good deal taller, and Sherlock could see the trap door above as a small patch of orange light against the ceiling. There would always have to be something to break the fall for anyone to ever use this room, unless they were to come down on broomsticks, he thought.

There was an archway in one corner of the room, and Sherlock took it, entering another chamber. This one had tall, sloping and arched ceilings, and was much more brilliantly lit than the initial corridor had been. Sherlock wondered if, aside from the common rooms where there still may be a few older students studying, this was the brightest room in the castle at that moment. There was a heavy wooden door on the other end, and after realizing that there was nothing interesting to see in the rest of the room, Sherlock took it, to reveal yet another space. This one was bigger than the previous two, but still just as empty. It gave way to still one more room through another door, another classroom-like space that was completely bare. Sherlock crossed to the next door, directly in front of him, and entered a much smaller chamber which ended in a small fireplace. Unlike other fireplaces, however, this one had no wall behind it, and Sherlock found that it was tall enough for him to walk through like a doorway.

The next room appeared to be the last, and Sherlock couldn't find any way out of it other than the way he had come. The room itself was unremarkable: a stretch of stone floor followed by stone stairs with another level of the room below it, but all still slightly smaller than the Transfiguration classroom. Sherlock looked up curiously at the torches lining the walls, wondering why they were kept lit down here if no one used these rooms. The strangest thing about this whole series of rooms wasn't their contents—they all appeared to be empty—but simply that they were there at all, hidden under a trapdoor behind a locked door. As Sherlock wandered back to the start, he wondered why the castle included such rooms. He had found many hidden places in the castle, and it seemed that the architects hadn't followed any logical pattern when designing it, merely their own pure whim. He suspected that much of the castle had been added on to and manipulated since its original construction. This sequence of rooms seemed a place obscure to the point of invisibility, perhaps completely unknown, and the ideal place to hide something.

Sherlock cast a levitation charm on his own body to carefully raise himself up through the trapdoor again, and he carefully replaced the lid, blowing over the dust with his wand to obscure any sign that he'd disturbed it in the first place. He investigated the rest of the third floor, finding little else of interest compared to the chambers behind the trap door, and then, finally around four o'clock in the morning, returned to the Ravenclaw common room. He would slip in between the dark blue sheets of his four-poster and perhaps catch a few winks of sleep before he got up again for morning classes.

As he did so, however, snuggling down in the covers with his curls falling across the pillow, Sherlock couldn't help his mind whizzing away, trying to deconstruct the many secrets he was sure Dumbledore was guarding. How many of them concerned Hogwarts and its students? One of them was fairly obvious, of course, and it was clear that the secret society was in opposition to Voldemort; it was easy to tell when he had been away on business concerning the war. But did anything he was hiding have something to do with the locked door and the empty rooms behind it? Was Dumbledore planning to hide something there? Or did he, perhaps, always keep such an area ready, prepared to be filled when next needed?

A flurry of silver gave a faint sparkle in the frosty air before hitting the window pane and melting into the snow already accumulated there. John winked sleepily at it from the other side of the glass. His head was resting against his hand, elbow propped up against the stone of the window ledge in his dormitory as his fist pushed his cheek up above his drowsy smile. He'd woken up early this Christmas morning, and he was the only boy from his dormitory left at Hogwarts for break, the covers on the other beds resting in their neatly folded sheets of fabric. John blinked as a barn owl soared over the trees outside, each like a turret of frosting under azure blue sky. The snow was falling thinner and thinner, but days of white crystals had already piled over the grounds.

Softly, softly he padded out of the room after changing out of his pajamas, and John decided to write a short letter to his parents in the common room below. When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he saw that a crackling fire was already complimenting the warm scarlet decorations of the room. John jumped onto a sofa by the fire to compose his letter, pausing every few moments to consider what he wanted to say. He knew his parents had planned for him and Harry to be home for Christmas, but things hadn't worked out that way. It had been only two days before the first term was to end that Harry's owl had arrived with their letter—his parents were regretful, but they seemed to think they'd be working over break and it would be best for John and Harry to stay at Hogwarts, "where we know you'll be looked after." John looked out the common room windows, out at the panorama of snow and forest, thinking. It was easy – from here, anyway – to forget that the Wizarding World was at war.

Through the cozy, festive halls and past the suits of armor glowing with faerie lights, John made his way to the West tower. He didn't meet a single person along the way, and he pulled his cloak and Gryffindor scarf more tightly around himself as he ascended the steps to the Owlery. A hundred owls perched around him, and a few were only just soaring through the empty gaps in the walls as they returned from a night of hunting.

It took John a few moments to find Harry's owl, but once he did he fasted the note to its leg and watched it swoop out the window, receding into the sunlit sky. John brushed a few flecks of snow out of his hair, then started off for the main castle and its warmth again. He never had found the kitchens, but sometimes there was hot cocoa in the common room.

"Sarah, cover me!" yelled John as he ran out from behind the tree, pelting snowballs with as much accuracy as he could at the opposing Hufflepuffs, who turned their faces away and shrieked as the snowballs hit them. John dived for the cover of the trees again and felt a snowball smack into his lower leg just as he made it. Sarah stepped over him to deliver another at the Hufflepuffs, and John could hear it hit, even if he wasn't sure what. The snowball fight had been going on for quite some time now, and both teams had reached the point where they didn't have ammunition from the original piles anymore, everyone having to scoop up their own snow and hastily pack it together between dodging the flying projectiles in order to have anything to throw.

"Alright, alright, we surrender!" said a voice, and John saw Joshua, a Hufflepuff third year, step out from the trees with his arms raised. Two of his teammates were lying in the snow, and the girl next to him dropped the snow she had been holding.

"Excellent," said Anisha, the fifth year Gryffindor who had been heading their attack, and who also happened to be a prefect in addition to having a superb throwing arm. She stepped out from the trees and folded her arms, smirking at Joshua.

Sarah laughed at the look he gave her, and then crossed over to help pull up Mike Stamford, the pudgy first year she and John had sat with on the train, and who was lying in the snow in defeat.

Anisha checked her watch, noting the golden planets and stars around its edge. "Dinner's in about an hour. We should probably go back to the school and warm up first."

"Alright," said John, looking at the others. "Race you there!"

When John arrived at the Great Hall for Christmas dinner about an hour later with Sarah, he was surprised to see how many students had remained over the break. There were enough, even, for the house tables to have remained in place, though he noticed that they seemed a bit shorter than usual. He talked to Harry for a few minutes, and swapped his present of chocolate frogs for hers of sugar quills, then waved to Mike and Yasha at their different tables.

Dumbledore led them in a few Christmas carols, the group ending with a rather off-key rendition of "The Holly and the Ivy." John pulled Christmas crackers with Sarah and the other few Gryffindors gathered there. He ended up with a pack of Ice Mice, a small box of Filibuster fireworks, and a small pile of bee-shaped honey candies, which fascinated him. The detail in their wings and eyes really was amazing, considering how small they were.

John spent most of the dinner talking to Sarah, the only other Gryffindor first year there, but she seemed distracted and he kept noticing her eyes wandering. He remembered how she, too, had received a letter from her parents telling her to stay only at the last minute. Halfway through the pudding, John followed her gaze to the staff table, where he could see Dumbledore in deep conversation with professor Flitwick, a green Christmas crown perched upon his long white hair. The staff table was more solemn than it had been at the start of the meal, and much more so than the students' tables. This sobriety seemed slightly ominous as snow fell from the enchanted ceiling and disappeared just above the teachers' heads.

As John scooped up another bite of Yule log, he saw Harry two tables down with the Hufflepuffs, giggling as a dark-haired girl John didn't recognize laid her head on her shoulder with a contented smile, their sides touching as they sat closely together on the bench. He thought they were holding hands under the table. He nudged Sarah, who said "What?" and looked over.

"My sister," he whispered, jerking his head. Harry, however, was far from noticing. Sarah looked around for a moment, then her eyes fell upon Harry and the girl and she smiled tentatively at John. She seemed to be on the verge of saying something, but then she just giggled and shrugged at him. Over her shoulder John met eyes with Anisha, who smirked and winked at him. She was now wearing a pair of dangling Christmas light earrings in addition to her gold nose ring.

"Do you think this many people normally stay for Christmas?" John asked Sarah.

"I have no idea," she replied. "I think more might be because of the war."

"Yeah," said John, looking out over the heads gathered there. "I think my parents thought Harry and I'd be safer here."

"That's not really a surprise," said Sarah. Then she dropped her voice to a whisper, and said "I know Julian Arden was planning to go home this year, but he just found out about two weeks ago that his dad was killed by Death Eaters. His mom had been gone for years already." She was indicating a freckled boy at the Ravenclaw table who didn't seem to be joining in the conversation there. The few other students beneath the blue hangings all seemed to be older. Ravenclaw had a few fewer students than Hufflepuff, but more than Slytherin, whose table seemed nearly empty.

John sighed as he looked around the hall. He had been feeling so cheerful just moments before, but seeing the filled seats made him wonder why each of the students here couldn't go home, and seeing the empty seats made him fervently hope that those students who had left weren't having a grim or lonely Christmas with worried families.

"It's been like that more and more the past few years, I think." John focused back at the space in front of him and saw that Anisha had slid down the bench on the other side to sit across from them. "Barely anyone stayed my first year, but there's been slightly more each year since. Some people lose family, others just have parents who want them here instead of at home for the holidays."

"It seems like most parents would want their kids close, though," said Sarah, looking puzzled. John frowned at her. Why had her parents decided to have her stay over break? He'd never asked, and somehow he didn't think he would.

Anisha gave a tilt of her head to the side with a small shrug. "It really just depends. Some do, a couple of parents have even pulled their kids out of school in the past few years, but others really think they're safer with Dumbledore."

"What about you, Anisha?" asked John. Somehow he didn't feel odd asking her. Anisha was just so confident in herself, so blunt and open.

She shrugged. "My family's Hindu. Christmas is great and all, but it's not really a big deal in our family like it is for most English people."

John smiled. "Oh, do you ever go home for Diwali?"

"Yep, I did this year. Not last year, though. We just kinda decide year to year whatever works. I can't take the train, obviously, so I had to get Professor McGonagall to let me use her fire for the Floo network. She didn't seem to mind though."

"That's pretty cool," said John.

Anisha smiled and tossed some of her dark hair over one shoulder. They spent the rest of the meal talking together (Diwali was bigger in some parts of India than others, John learned), but the other students were slowly starting to trickle out, and soon Anisha stood up to go off with some of the older students.

"Want to go back to the common room?" John asked Sarah.

"Sure," she said, smiling. The two of them stood up to leave the hall, and when they walked through the large, wooden doors John saw Anisha standing with a small knot of older students in the Entrance Hall.

John was just noticing the nuns in a particular portrait looking like they were preparing to sing, and he turned to look at them better. He was just about to say something to Sarah when he took a step backwards and bumped into something.

John turned around immediately and saw a tall figure towering over him. He was certainly an older student, with slicked-back, slightly ginger hair and an immaculate green and silver tie protruding from his collar and into his creaseless robes. John saw the head boy badge on his chest and hastily took another step back. He realized that he hadn't seen this boy at the Slytherin table at dinner.

"Sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to bump into you."

"No matter," said the boy in a reserved tone, his lips slightly pursed. He tapped the umbrella he was holding against the floor and twirled it in a circle once. "Just mind you be more careful of where you're going in the future, Mr. Watson."

"How do you know my name?" asked John, frowning at him.

The boy smirked. "Oh don't worry, you've no need to be alarmed. I mean no aggression or threat."

"But how do you know my name?" repeated John, feeling defiant.

"I know many things about this school and the students who pass through it, Mr. Watson," said the boy, tapping his umbrella against the floor again. "Now, if you'll excuse me," he said, with a rather false smile, walking past John as if he had done nothing out of the ordinary in any respect. John turned to watch his back retreating towards the dungeons, wondering if he should question him again. Then he saw Anisha had turned her head over her shoulder and was watching; she looked like she wanted to say something.

John and Sarah moved towards her, and Anisha turned a bit away from her group to talk to them. "That's Mycroft Holmes," she said. "Head boy this year, from Slytherin. He's a bit odd…it's best just to give him a wide berth, really."

"Why?" asked John.

Anisha frowned after the retreating Slytherin as he and his umbrella were lost to sight down the dungeon staircase. "Just is, really. He's not really intrusive, but sometimes he seems that way. I've heard he can read on you whatever you've been up to within the past few days, who your friends are, anything you just wouldn't expect him to know without having talked to you before."

"That's a little creepy," said Sarah.

"I guess so," said Anisha, still frowning. "It's just the way he is, you know? As a rule, though, don't piss off the Slytherin head boy or prefects, especially as Gryffindors." She reached out and patted John on the shoulder, then turned back to her friends.

John joined Sarah in a few games of wizard's chess, but after just a few rounds it became clear that they were both feeling very full and sleepy from dinner. They said their good nights, and John ascended the spiral staircase to his empty dormitory. The grounds were long dark by now, but a few lights from the castle shone sparkling strips across the snow. He sat on his bed for a few minutes, resting his elbows on his knees as he gazed out at the grounds.

_First Christmas at Hogwarts_, thought John as he pulled back the covers and slid under them. He had little time for other thoughts, however, for soon he was fast asleep, the dark washing over him, soothing and silent.

**AN: Thanks for reading! Thanks to my beta, That Kid with the Long Coat. Check them out! I'll be posting the next chapter soon. **


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

The rest of the school returned to Hogwarts soon enough after Christmas, and classes resumed again almost immediately. John learned to make eggcups cartwheel, cheered on the Gryffindor Quidditch team (even though they were thrashed by Ravenclaw), and endured the gentle, but remarkably persistent teasings of Mike, Yasha, and practically the entirety of first years on Valentine's Day, when they all insisted he should be buying Sarah flowers. Or at least stealing some from the greenhouses. Besides the fact that John didn't think he could manage to sneak a single begonia out of the greenhouses without being strangled by something else, or perhaps taking a cutting of Venomous Tentacula instead on accident, he continued to insist that Sarah was _not_, in fact, his girlfriend, and the two of them were not planning to be involved in any way besides friendship. Ever. Period. However, every time he said this he felt himself going a bit pink, and he couldn't help but notice Sarah growing more rosy still.

It was between Charms and Potions on that-most-dreaded-day-of-pink-and-glitter, as John was beginning to call the whole day to himself in his head, that he just managed to slip away from a pack of merciless Slytherins, all singing rather badly after him and making unimaginative references to Shakespeare characters. He dashed down a beautifully quiet corridor, then sighed and leaned against the wall, clutching his side from the running. It was tough to be best friends with a girl, especially one who had to be so _pretty._ John looked around the corridor, recognizing where he was after a moment, and was just about to take a longer route to Potions (where, unfortunately, he'd have to be with both Sarah and the Slytherins in one place), when he heard soft whispering coming from somewhere nearby. John's natural curiosity got the better of him, and he couldn't help but peer around the corner, peeking his head around the edge of an archway.

There were two older girls standing there, holding each other with hands on each other's waists and barely more than an inch apart. One had long, dark, and thick wavy hair and was wearing the blue-trimmed robes of Ravenclaw, and the other had short, blond hair cut above her ears and with sweeping bangs to one side. It took a full few seconds of shock for John to register that this second girl was, most diffidently, Harry. The other girl was the same girl he had seen sitting with her at Christmas, and they were kissing.

John immediately tore his head away from the archway and careened down the hall, his eyebrows shooting up across his forehead. This careening was, however, far from silent.

"Uh oh, there's someone there," said a voice.

"We were going to keep this quiet."

"JOHN WATSON!" Shouted Harry's voice. John wasn't going to turn, no he most diffidently wasn't, Gryffindor or not. If he just kept running he would never have to talk to Harry about that, not at all.

He felt a tug at his sleeve and realized that Harry had caught up with him. She had always been the faster runner, and she anchored him to the ground firmly with her grip.

"What are you doing here?" she demanded. John couldn't tell how angry she was. She wasn't fuming, wasn't spitting, but she certainly seemed upset. Nervous?

"Hiding from Slytherins," said John truthfully.

"And you just happened to walk in on me—here?"

John had a feeling she had been about to say something different, but he didn't question her. "You weren't really very well hidden."

Harry snorted, brushing her bangs out of her eyes. "Don't tell anyone, okay?"

The other girl was walking up to join them tentatively. John glanced at her briefly before turning his attention back to Harry. "No, of course not. But...why...can't I?"

Harry gave him an odd look. John really didn't know what to make of it. Her mouth became a little smaller, her eyebrows moved a bit closer together, and her head tilted to the side. She looked...questioning? Pitying? Slightly surprised, surely, but not as if she was disappointed in him, though. It made him feel uneasy.

"I promise I won't," he assured her.

"I know," said Harry. She gave him a small smile, and then took the arm of the other girl. They both turned and walked away, leaving John looking after them with his school bag by his side. He shook his head slightly, and then turned in the other direction to make his way to Potions.

* * *

About a week later, John was eating breakfast at the Gryffindor table when Harry plopped down into the seat next to him.

"Hi," he said, a little surprised. In all the months he had been at Hogwarts, she had never tried to join him in the Great Hall before.

"Her name's Clara," Harry said without preamble.

"Oh," said John. He smiled at her. Harry was smiling rather widely herself.

There was a pause. "And... are you...?" asked John.

"Yes," said Harry. She smiled yet more largely. "We're actually going to Hogsmeade together this weekend."

"Great," said John. And he meant it. Whenever he had seen Harry since Christmas, she had seemed much happier than the Harry he had known of past months.

His older sister looked at him sideways, her lips quirked. "And you can tell people. If you want to."

John didn't know what he was feeling, but it was a good feeling. Harry clapped him on the shoulder and then stood up to leave. As she turned, John noticed that Clara was waiting for her at the end of the table.

"Harry?" he called out. She turned to face him, bangs sweeping out of her eyes with the movement.

"I'm proud of you," said John.

"Thanks, little bro," said Harry. Then she turned, and, hand-in-hand with Clara, went to sit at the Ravenclaw table.

* * *

Sherlock's second term was, as he may have called it, uneventful. The news from the war spiraled in with the owls every day, becoming grimmer and grimmer; he was at the top in every class with barely any effort; and he never saw Mycroft. In fact, he systematically outlined Mycroft's schedule and habits so as to be sure the two of them would never come into contact by chance. Sherlock's favorite hours were those taken up by the Quidditch matches, when the entire school evacuated the building and left him entirely alone. Alone was how Sherlock found he liked to be.

Once Sherlock had learned to avoid the people, it was the banality of Hogwarts that began to get to him. The classes were predictable, the hallways easily mapped within the first three months, and the beauty of the grounds and surrounding mountains did little to impress him. Sherlock wondered, on occasion, whether he should take up giant-squid taming just to fill his time.

Instead, however, he was drawn more and more to the library. Unlike the many Ravenclaws before him to devote themselves to deconstructing the shelves, Sherlock felt as if his very sanity depended on it. He needed the knowledge to distract himself, or else he felt he may die of boredom. Before Easter break, he successfully learned to brew all the potions that were taught up to the O.W.L. level, plus several more whose recipes he nicked from the restricted section. Pickpocketing the teachers for keys was absurdly simple (he had found that _Alohomora_ did not work on every locked door in Hogwarts). After Easter break he moved on to the N.E.W.T. level potions, and his Transfiguration work was getting better all the time. It became Sherlock's goal to master everything up through at least the fourth year level in all his classes by the end of the school year. Except for the dull bits. No use in wasting his time and memory on those (Astronomy suffered accordingly).

As the castle entered June, Sherlock realized his time to study was shrinking by large proportions every day. Once the students were sent home for the summer, he wouldn't be allowed to do magic for another two months. He'd also be in the same house as Mycroft, closer in distance than they had been since last August.

Sherlock had no trouble securing a compartment all to himself on the train. The Hogwarts Express had been built to hold exactly as many students as it transported to and from Hogwarts every year, but he had earned quite a reputation for being off-putting and even somewhat hostile, a reputation that had long been disseminating beyond just his own year. What's more, upon setting his trunk down by the seats, Sherlock had immediately set up his cauldron and potions' kit on the floor, and soon the acrid smell indicating that he was taking advantage of his last hours to do magic was causing every person who passed by to not only wave their hand in front of their face hastily, but also to increase their speed and quickly leave him alone. That was how he liked it.

As Sherlock jumped down from the scarlet steam engine, having thrown his trunk down in front of him a moment before, he began to scan the crowd for Mycroft. It was, finally, necessary he find him, as much as Sherlock hated to admit it to himself. He navigated through the embracing families quickly, soon finding the tall figure alone by a pillar near the wall where they would leave the platform.

"Ah, Sherlock," said Mycroft. "How nice to see you after all this time."

Sherlock didn't say anything.

"And I even had minimal words from your teachers about you, too. Although, I must say, stealing the boomslang skin...I was a bit disappointed you were caught."

"I wasn't caught," said Sherlock. "Professor Hadaway just suspected it was me because he doesn't like me."

"You'll have to work on that, little brother," said Mycroft. "You can detest the rest of the world all you want, but you're going to soon learn it's best to keep yourself on good terms with the people you need things from. Or, at _least, _the people you _don't_ need certain less pleasant things from."

Sherlock grunted.

"We're going out that way," said Mycroft pointing. "We'll exit the station, then find a quiet alleyway for us to Disapparate from. I can take you by side-along Apparition."

"Obviously," snorted Sherlock.

"Fine," said Mycroft sniffily. "Let's go."

They walked through the solid brick wall, leaving before any of the other students had even had a chance to think of disengaging from their parents, and appeared on the other side of the platform in the Muggle version of King's Cross Station. Sherlock trailed behind Mycroft, dragging his trunk along behind him. He was still all joints and skinny limbs and not exactly strong for his age, but as much as the trunk burdened him, he refused to ask Mycroft for help, even though his older brother had long turned seventeen and could have sent the trunk ahead of them to their destination, as he had obviously done with his own.

Sherlock had known long before they stepped outside, of course, that this was one of the days in London where Mycroft would actually have occasion to use his umbrella. A gray mist engulfed the city, falling down from the drab sky and onto Sherlock's shoulders, dusting his hair with moisture within the first few minutes that they walked. Mycroft had opened his umbrella as soon as they left the station. A dark mop of untidy curls trailed after a small navy canopy, winding along the London streets until they both stopped behind a block of small shops, between a heavily graffitied wall and two red phone booths covered in peeling stickers.

"Grip my arm now, Sherlock," said Mycroft.

Sherlock complied, applying as little pressure as he could. Mycroft looked down at him, giving a small, impatient sigh, and then twisted.

The two of them were immediately thrown into uncomfortable, oppressive, swirling, indistinguishable color and pressure. Sherlock's body felt like gasping, but his lungs couldn't do it. Before he could panic, however, he was thrust just as suddenly out of whatever they had been in during their moment of Apparation, and Sherlock saw they had appeared in the familiar garden of their small house in Sussex. There they were again, the blue house on the left, the green house across the street, the tomatoes and geraniums growing between the neighbors and the brick side of the Holmes family's house, a blue picket fence enclosing the plants. It was raining here, too, and Sherlock didn't wait for Mycroft before entering the house. To his mild surprise, the door sprung open before him without him having to unlock it―he had reasonable control over his own magic without using a wand, but it had been some time since he had last used it in this way, or had it run away with him.

* * *

"Alright, what is it, Mycroft, you've been standing there for forty seconds already," said Sherlock, who was draped over his bed inelegantly, throwing darts into his ceiling without a single shred of interest in the activity. Merlin, he needed to find a way to entertain himself without magic. The past two weeks had been dreadful.

The only blessing, Sherlock supposed, was that Mycroft was so busy with his now full-time job at the Ministry that he barely remained at the house in Sussex, instead spending long hours in London with the Ministry. Sherlock had spent days trying to distract himself, wandering as far away from the town as he could before Mycroft eventually dragged him back; throwing each of his books aside in turn as they failed to captivate him; trying his own chemistry experiments on whatever they had in the kitchen or he found outside. At the moment, however, Mycroft was hovering in his doorway, and everything about him suggested he had something unpleasant to say.

"We are going to a colleague of mine's house for dinner tonight."

"You are going to a colleague's house for dinner tonight."

"No, Sherlock, _we_ are going."

"I don't need to eat, I ate this morning."

"That is unacceptable, and―"

"Just because you feel the constant urge to shovel food into your well-practiced mouth does not mean―"

"_Regardless_ of whether or not you are hungry, you shall be accompanying me, Sherlock. This colleague has requested it and I am unable to arrange an untimely accident for him before this evening."

"Why does this colleague know I exist?"

"Unfortunately, I am not the only person at the Ministry privy to sensitive information, and some of the others there know I have a brother. Believe me, Sherlock, I have attempted to keep you well-hidden from view."

"I'm not going."

"Yes, you are. And you will behave yourself."

"Or what? Civil war?"

"Something like that. Or a more destructive continuation of the one we're in. Perhaps I shall arrange for you to retake your first year at Hogwarts then, with an overbearing Hufflepuff tutor to assist you, lest you fail all of your classes?"

Sherlock snapped his head up, glaring daggers at Mycroft. "You―"

"Yes, I would, Sherlock, so come to dinner tonight. Or there will be consequences."

Sherlock spent the next few hours lying on his bed, imagining a million gruesome deaths for Mycroft, most of which involved chimeras.

Mycroft's colleague turned out to have quite an estate, somewhere else in the South of England, a location that Sherlock had quickly forgotten after Mycroft told him. He'd also forgotten the colleague's name, and what he did with Mycroft at the Ministry. Some government thing, unimportant to Sherlock.

Mycroft insisted that they walk up to the front door instead of Apparating directly to it, and Sherlock maintained a stony silence throughout the walk. His older brother had the good sense not to attempt to engage him in conversation, or snap last-minute reminders of table etiquette at him.

Once they were admitted to the villa by an aged house-elf, Sherlock and Mycroft were led to a large dinning room, where the host and a son (approximately two and a half years older than Mycroft, settled at a boring desk job at the Ministry that would appease the father but not delegate him any real responsibility) were already sitting.

"Ah, Mycroft!" said the wizard who must be the colleague, standing and gesturing them to seats. "Good to see that you were able to leave work at all today. Barty Crouch isn't making things easy for us, is he?"

"No, he certainly is not," said Mycroft, sitting down and giving a pointed look at Sherlock to indicate that he should do the same. "The amount of authority he's attempting to gain at the Ministry! Clearly he thinks he'll be minister once Bagnold's gone. Anyway, Howard, this is my younger brother, Sherlock."

"Ah, Sherlock. Such unusual names in your family! Well, we're wizards, aren't we? What should I expect? And you'll be at Hogwarts now?"

"Yes," said Sherlock tersely. He had attempted to inject as much arrogance and impertinence as he could into the syllable, meaning to send the message _do not talk to me anymore_ as clearly as he possibly could.

Mycroft glared at him, but then turned his attention to the man and said, "Sherlock has just finished his first year."

"Splendid," said the wizard. He had grizzled brown hair, ruddy skin, and took up his entire chair with ease. "This is my son, Victor. He just finished at Hogwarts three years ago."

_Spot on, then_, thought Sherlock to himself. Being two and a half years older than Mycroft would mean that this Victor could have easily graduated Hogwarts three years ago.

After this, however, Sherlock paid little attention to the conversation. Mycroft and the other man went to some lengths complaining about how much there was to do at the Ministry with the war against Voldemort, how unhelpful the Aurors were, how Voldemort seemed to be getting stronger and stronger, and yet Dumbledore was still being so mysterious about his own contributions to the war effort. Sherlock picked at his food once it was brought, trying to eat as little as possible without the wizard saying anything to him. He didn't notice that Victor had been trying to catch his eye the entire meal, as if he somehow thought that Sherlock was someone he could share conversation with as Mycroft and his father prattled on about work.

Finally, after what seemed to Sherlock to have been pure hours of mindless boredom, Mycroft's foot connected sharply with his shin under the table.

"Ow!" exclaimed Sherlock, looking at him in outrage. He quickly realized, however, that everyone at the table had been staring at him even before this outburst.

"What?" he snapped.

"Mr. Trevor just asked you what house you're in at Hogwarts," hissed Mycroft.

Sherlock glared at "Mr. Trevor" at this, answering shortly with "Ravenclaw."

"I was in Ravenclaw myself!" said Trevor boisterously. "I remember, I was actually nearly a hatstall, one of the first since Minerva McGonagall―"

"No you weren't, you were in Hufflepuff," said Sherlock, before he could stop himself. Then he realized that he probably wouldn't have done so, anyway, even if he had thought to. Beside him, he heard Mycroft exhale as if he wanted to groan.

"What do you mean?" asked Trevor, suddenly looking at Sherlock much more critically.

"You were in Hufflepuff at Hogwarts, not Ravenclaw. There was a small badger emblem engraved into some of the silver in one of the rooms we walked through on the way here, a clear replicate of the Hufflepuff house crest. Not a family heirloom, however, Hufflepuff's line died out centuries ago, and Trevor is not one of the surnames associated with any old wizarding families, regardless. I can also tell that you fear personal attack by Death Eaters, even though you rank highly at the Ministry, but it was only in the past few months that you began to take this threat seriously―this was when you had a second wand fitted into that walking stick you have propped up against the chair there. You were a Beater at Hogwarts, judging by the shape of your ears, though you were either very poor or very good―they are not so mangled, so perhaps you failed to make the team multiple years consecutively, or you were good enough to stop most Bludgers from hitting you. You have also visited New Zealand and Japan within the past decade, and you used to be quite closely associated with someone with the initials J.A., but you have now been trying to cover that up for quite some time."

This was the most Sherlock had spoken at once in several months. Trevor fell face-first onto the table in a faint.

"Merlin's beard, Sherlock, did you have to do that?" said Mycroft, bringing a hand to his forehead in what seemed like both shock and exasperation.

* * *

The next day, Mycroft came into Sherlock's room slightly after midday and sat down on the end of the bed without invitation.

"What?" asked Sherlock. His heart sank a notch lower in his chest; he had very nearly gone out of town again today to see if he could find a beehive in the forest, and if he had done so he would have missed this visit from Mycroft entirely.

"I just got back from the office."

"Oh, you'd left?"

Mycroft ignored this. "Your little speech last night alerted me to a most singular tattoo Trevor had in the crook of his elbow, which he had just procured a potion for. To make it disappear."

"Mmm," said Sherlock. "J. A. Don't know how you missed it."

Mycroft ignored this, too. "The potion, however, is a class-C non-tradable item. When we raided his house last night, we found that he'd had stores of the potion before. And it wasn't hard to deduce that his wife had used liberal amounts of it in the days leading up to her death."

"Wonder if it works on Dark Marks," said Sherlock absently, staring up at the smiley-faced pattern of dart holes in his ceiling. Should he add an eagle next?

Mycroft quirked an eyebrow. "I wondered exactly the same thing. Turns out it doesn't, and that's why his wife had been trying to use so much of it."

"And how did you deduce all that?" asked Sherlock, slightly sarcastically.

"Trevor confessed most of it once we'd found the potion. But not all of it. Enough for me to piece together the rest, and realize that his wife had been in with the Death Eaters, and branded with the Dark Mark, before she was killed two years ago. We thought Death Eaters killed her, but now it turns out that it may have been the Auror who was caught in the struggle as well."

"Fascinating," said Sherlock blandly. "What happened to Trevor?"

"He's being held for questioning. Might get a sentence to Azkaban, but I doubt it."

"Why not?" asked Sherlock, feeling alarmed for the first time.

"He's a good worker. I don't like him personally, but he gets things done, and that's the kind of wizard we need right now at the Ministry."

"What?" demanded Sherlock. "You know that his wife was in with the Death Eaters, and yet he's not going to be held accountable for knowing about it and not turning her in?"

"The Ministry is in a tough position, Sherlock. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is a lot stronger than we've been allowing the _Prophet_ to let on, and unless some real headway is made soon, we can't afford to expend anyone who can help with the effort."

"And you trust him. After finding out about this."

"No, Sherlock, I don't. But I don't trust anyone at the Ministry, much," said Mycroft, standing up to leave.

"Why did you tell me all this?" asked Sherlock.

"Why did you say anything about Trevor's tattoo?"

"To annoy him," answered Sherlock quickly.

Mycroft smirked. "I'll see you later, Sherlock," he said. A moment later Sherlock heard him Disapparate downstairs.

Sherlock sat reclined on his bed again, plucking the strings of his violin as he held it to his chest. Maybe he should disclose his deductions more often. Could be interesting.

**AN: So, if you're wondering why Sherlock and John still haven't met yet, don't worry, it'll happen. I'm using the first year or so to set things up and establish them as characters in particular situations before they meet each other, just like they are in the show. Starting second year soon! I have big plans for the second year….**


	5. Chapter 5

**Very sorry for the long wait on this! I blame my beta. Really. **

Chapter 5

"How was your summer, John?"

"Oh, it was fine. Nothing special, but it was kinda nice," John answered. "How about yours?" 

"Oh, can't complain," said Mike, shrugging. "You know. It was nice and all, but…to tell you the truth, my parents were pretty stressed, what with the war and everything. I started to just wish I could get back here, to get away from that…is that wrong?" 

John shrugged. Honestly, yes, he did think that was wrong, but he couldn't pretend to himself that he hadn't started to feel the same way over the summer. He'd wished his parents would at least try for a bit more cheer, especially when Harry had Clara around and it was obvious that she was thirsting for their approval. Whenever Clara had come over for dinner with them, Harry had alternated between staring intently at her girlfriend with her hand clasped in hers under the table and glancing back at their parents nervously. John could tell that their parents didn't at all care that Clara was a girl; they were just tense from work at the Auror office and adjusting to the fact that she was the first significant other that either of their children had ever brought home. He didn't think that Harry would want him to talk to her about it, though, her being the solitary (except for Clara) and angsty teenage girl she was. Walls had gone up between the two of them this summer, and John had soon been wishing to be back at Hogwarts, where he could distract himself with his challenging studies, roaming around the castle grounds in good weather, and flying around the Quidditch pitch on a school broom when the house teams weren't using it for practice. Maybe he'd go out for the Gryffindor team this year.

All he said to Mike, however, was "I guess I can see what you mean." 

"Mike, you coming?" called a voice. Mike turned to answer his Hufflepuff friend, calling back a reply, and then turned to face John again. "Looks like I have to go. I'll see you in class tomorrow, right?" 

"Yeah, we've probably still got Herbology together," said John.

"Right," said Mike. "See you then." 

"Yeah, see you," said John, as Mike left to join his table. He crossed to the Gryffindor table and sat down next to Sarah. They had talked about meeting up over the summer, but as John's parents were almost always working he had soon realized they wouldn't be able to take him anywhere and Sarah had found herself similarly constrained. They talked easily, though, and caught up quickly. Soon they were joined by Anisha and some of the other older students from her year.

John couldn't help but notice that the entire hall of students seemed to be in a darker mood than normal, much more than at the end of the previous year, and it seemed to be from something more than the heavy storm clouds that were swirling above, visible through the enchanted ceiling. The summer had brought them out of their isolated bubble of Hogwarts and caused many of the students to face how grim the war really was. Here and there were the empty seats of students whose parents hadn't let them return after break, places where others should be sitting. No one said anything about these empty seats.

Soon John realized that someone else was missing, too. The throne-like chair at the staff table where Dumbledore usually sat was conspicuously empty, and Professor McGonagall was sitting in her seat next to it, in deep conversation with a man John didn't recognize.

"Who do you think that is, up at the staff table?" he asked, pointing.

"I don't know," said Sarah. "I haven't seen them before."

Anisha glanced up, swallowing before saying nonchalantly, "Must be the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher." 

"Wait, what happened to Professor Baird?" asked John.

"Haven't you heard?" asked Anisha. "About how we need a new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor every year?" 

"Well, yeah," said John. "But I always thought that was a joke."

Andrew, one of the older students, laughed. "We tell the first years some crazy things, yeah, but that one's actually true."

"What do you mean?" asked Sarah. "There's really a new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher every year?"

"Yeah," said Reg, another one of Anisha's friends. "It's been like that since…well, before we got here. I remember how I didn't really believe it at first, either."

"Yeah, the guy before Baird got taken down by Death Eaters some time in June two years ago," said Anisha.

Sarah and John shared a look. It was evident that they both found this much more disturbing than the older students seemed too. John decided to take a brave stab at lightening the mood. "So…are there any other things you've been telling us that are or aren't true and we should know about? Like…bubotubers still aren't filled with tasty honey, right?"

Anisha burst out laughing. "No, they most certainly are not, John, don't try that one."

"Ten points to whoever came up with that one, though," said Reg, nodding at him and spearing a potato on his fork.

"Is there anything we're missing, though?" asked Sarah apprehensively.

Once the older students had assured them that there wasn't anything else important about the school that they needed to know, Professor McGonagall stood up to make the start of term announcements. She introduced the wizard she'd been speaking to as Professor Whittlebee, and did indeed say that he would be teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts. She seemed slightly harassed herself, though, and did not make any allusion to Dumbledore's empty chair before dismissing them.

John and Sarah walked back to the common room together, parting as they went to their separate dormitories. John smiled at the small sign reading "second years" that had been attached to his old dorm before entering. After he had changed into pajamas and the other boys had stopped talking, feeling the soporific effects of a huge feast, he lay stretched out on his bed, thinking. It was amazing how much more the castle felt like home than his own house did anymore, how natural being in the castle felt. John felt as if he'd spent half his life here, even though that night only marked a full year since he'd first arrived there. Times change, however, as was certainly evidenced by everything he had thought about in the Great Hall that night.

"Alright, chaps, today we'll be working with Snarfalumps," said Professor Sprout, addressing the Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs in Greenhouse Two. She gestured to the bush-like plants that were laid out in pots all along the long, center table of the greenhouse. Each had dozens of waving tentacles that looked like they were part vine and part octopus, looking thick and succulent as if they were filled with some sort of liquid.

"Now, who knows how we can tell the difference between a Snarfalump and Venomous Tentacula?" she asked.

Several people put their hands in the air, but Professor Sprout called on Sarah. "Snarfalumps have much longer branches and are normally moving, but Venomous Tentacula will only move when they're trying to catch prey. Venomous Tentacula also have a sort of mouth on the trunk, which Snarfalumps don't." She said this last part with a bit of uncertainty, trying to surreptitiously peer under the waving tentacles of the nearest Snarfalump while the whole class watched her.

"Ten points to Gryffindor," said Professor Sprout. "Now, Snarfalumps can have up to forty tentacles on one bush, and, like Ms. Sawyer said, they are normally mobile," she continued, holding up her own Snarfalump by the pot so they could all see how mobile it was. "They have even been known to switch beds in gardens. Snarfalump juice has interesting healing properties as well, and it's often used to help settle the stomach. It isn't normally effective against anything serious, but Snarfalump juice can be found in a lot of basic healing potions. So, today, we're going to juice them."

John wasn't sure how he liked the idea of spending a class period juicing the twisting tentacles, even if it was for medicinal purposes. All the same, he watched as Professor Sprout demonstrated how to properly juice a Snarfalump at the front of the class.

"I want all of you to put on your dragon-hide gloves, and then begin," she announced once she'd finished.

About halfway through the lesson, John was peacefully working on the Snarfalump in front of him with Sarah and chatting unconcernedly with her and Mike. Earlier, Professor Sprout had warned them how Snarfalumps didn't always like to be juiced, and how sometimes they would use their tentacles to bind the hands of would-be harvesters or even, in extreme cases, attempt to asphyxiate them. When John felt something prod him in the back, however, he merely thought that one of his classmates was passing behind him and had accidentally bumped him. It was only when the prodding became more insistent that he looked down and saw the Snarfalump tentacles wrapping around his torso from behind.

John yelled and was jerked backwards by the plant—as this happened, he became careless with the first Snarfalump he had been working on with Sarah, and the plant took this opportunity to wrap its tentacles around his wrists, gripping them together tightly. Sarah sprung into action and hacked at the plant with her trowel, slicing through the vines, severed plant appendages falling to the floor and juice spraying everywhere.

Without this tug in the front, however, John was jerked backwards by the force of the second Snarfalump, and he fell backwards on top of it as it pulled more tightly around his body. He tore at the tentacles that were wrapping more securely around his middle, but even more tentacles started to snake around his neck. John yelled again, grabbing at them frantically.

"_Diffindo!" _shouted Sarah. She hit the plant underneath him, cutting it into three pieces and effectively stunning it. John gasped as he threw the tentacles from around his throat and stomach. He was lying on the ground, and Sarah was leaning over him, looking concerned. John was too overcome by shock at what had just happened to feel much more than his racing heart, but he thought he felt a lurch in his stomach that might have been unrelated to the attack of the surprisingly vicious plant.

"You're covered in juice," said Sarah.

"Yeah," said John, noting to orange liquid that was gushing out all over the floor from the mutilated Snarfalump and dampening his robes. "Great."

"Careful over there, you two!" called Professor Sprout from the front of the greenhouse where she was rapidly filling a bucket with the juice. John became painfully aware that the entire class was staring at them. He accepted Sarah's hand up, and he was the first one out of the greenhouse when the bell for the end of Herbology sounded, immediately running off to the common room to change clothes.

As October finished out, chilly air began to settle around Hogwarts and John finally started to feel like he hadn't forgotten _everything _over the summer; the pace of his classes was able to pick up some as they introduced new material. He had learned that all the Gryffindor Quidditch team members from last year had returned, and the captain decided to keep her old team instead of holding tryouts. He was a little disappointed, but he didn't even have his own broom, after all, and soon schoolwork was leaving him less and less time for leisure.

Grim news from the war continued to spiral in with the owls, each week bringing new deaths and disappearances, and John felt that the fear had never been more palpable inside the school. Was it the way two new security trolls had been stationed by the school gates, how closely supervised the older students' trips into Hogmeade were planned to be, how the teachers gathered outside each others' classes to whisper to each other furtively? Or was most of it his imagination? Had this all been here last year, John only remaining oblivious because of the wonder of being a first year student at Hogwarts?

Everyone was looking forward to the Halloween feast. For the younger students, it was a chance to experience the full culinary delights of the school, and a light at the end of a particularly nasty week of difficult potioneering set by Professor Hadaway, the Potions teacher. For the older students, it would be welcome chance to rest after traipsing about Hogsmeade all day on the first visit to the village of the school year.

When John arrived at the Great Hall that night with Sarah, it was decked out in all of its macabre finery. There were jack-o-lanterns hanging in the air above the house tables, thick cobwebs draping from the walls, and the suits of armor in the hall each seemed to creak ominously at odd intervals. Sir Nick, the Gryffindor ghost, was becoming more and more irritated as students continued to request recounts of his own botched beheading over and over again. About halfway through the meal his mood became yet surlier as the Headless Hunt arrived, charging straight through the heavy oaken doors with raucous yells.

John laughed with everyone else as he watched the cavalrymen play head-polo, his eyes following their progress. From his angle, a particularly soaring shot of one of the knights' heads made him glance up at the staff table again. John noticed, with slight surprise, that Professor McGonagall wasn't there, and Hagrid, the gamekeeper, was leaning over her empty chair to speak intently with Professor Dumbledore. Dumbledore looked startled, and, in fact, the least calm John had ever seen him. John frowned up at this scene, and just then Dumbledore suddenly got to his feet and walked through a door connecting to a back room behind the staff table with Hagrid, a room John had never been in before.

"Sarah," he said, pulling at her sleeve to get her attention. "Dumbledore just left." 

"What?" she asked, tearing her gaze away from the Headless Hunt.

"Dumbledore just left. He and Hagrid went into that side room over there," said John, pointing.

"Okay…" she said, looking at him questioningly.

"Dumbledore looked kind of upset…you don't think anything's happened, do you?"

"What do you mean?" 

"You know, with the war. You know how often he isn't here," John said.

"Yeah, but there could be any number of reasons why he would leave," reasoned

Sarah. "That doesn't have to be it, John." 

Something was still making John uneasy, however. He thought it must be the look he had seen on Dumbledore's face, just the pure un-Dumbledore-ness of it, when the headmaster was normally so composed.

"I don't know," said John uncertainly. "It seems like something's wrong." 

"You're being paranoid, John," said Sarah, now turning away again. "I'm sure it's no big deal." 

John couldn't make himself believe the same thing. For some time, his eyes kept wandering to the staff table, where neither Dumbledore nor Hagrid reappeared.

Sherlock was passing through the Entrance Hall when he began to hear the slight murmur of low voices, something distinct and separate from the babble that was coming from the Great Hall where all the students were amassed. He quickly raised his wand to cast his Disillusionment Charm over himself, concealing his body to some extent, even though he still had yet to achieve perfection with the charm. Sherlock didn't suspect that he was doing anything wrong by wandering through the castle like this in the early evening, but he didn't want to be found lurking outside the Great Hall when the rest of the school was expected to be inside it eating together.

"And you're quite sure that's what Mad-Eye said, Hagrid?" Sherlock recognized Dumbledore's voice, much more terse than he had ever heard it before, although the only times when he had heard the headmaster speak were when he had been addressing the entire school.

"Yes, Professor Dumbledore, sir," answered Hagrid, his voice slightly choked, apprehensive. "Like I said, I was jus' comin' out o' the forest from feedin' the thestrals when I saw the Patronus, professor, comin' up to'ard the castle. It jus' stopped when it got near me, though, and gave me Mad-Eye's message." 

"Yes, if he wanted to send word to me at the castle he would have made his Patronus deliver the message to you or another teacher if it met them first," said Dumbledore. "So if the Death Eaters are gathering in Sheffield, they could be planning an attack there…that's where Benjy Fenwick's family is from, they could be after his relatives as well." 

"An'…you think Mad-Eye thinks they're planning something? For sure, professor?" asked Hagrid. The voices were getting much closer now, and Sherlock pressed himself up against the wall on the other side of a small archway that would conceal him from view. Peering around the edge, he could see Dumbledore's silver beard shining in the moonlight now that the sun had set as he answered.

"I cannot say yes whole-heartedly, Hagrid," said Dumbledore broodingly. "So many Death Eaters going to one place like that, when it has such weak ties with the Order…it is suspicious, certainly. I will alert the Fenwicks, but we should stay in touch with the rest of the Order, keep them vigilant. We'll go to my office now, Hagrid, and wait for Mad-Eye to contact us again, I am sure he will send word as soon as he can." 

Dumbledore began to walk briskly in the direction the marble staircase with Hagrid at his side. Sherlock followed, having to walk rapidly to keep up with both of the older men's much longer strides. The two men walked without speaking, but Hagrid was beginning to cry softly into his beard, giving the occasional trumpet-like sound of a sniff. Once they reached the stone gargoyle outside the headmaster's office, however, it became clear that there would be no way for Sherlock to sneak in along with them without Hagrid or Dumbledore realizing he was there. A little ways down the hallway he found another alcove shielded by a small arch where he could watch the door. He was sure that unless they were looking for him, no one was going to notice that he was there.

The two older wizards were inside the office for several minutes before the gargoyle leapt aside again, Dumbledore stepping out from the doorway, his features set in a determined expression. He began to walk briskly away from the office, a noticeable urgency in his gait, and Sherlock followed carefully. He had to stay much further behind than before to make sure his footsteps weren't heard in the absence of Hagrid's sobs.

Dumbledore went the same way they had come, casting the castle doors open with a flick of his wand and starting out across the darkened grounds. Sherlock didn't have to stay quite so close now to keep him in view, and he trotted behind the tall wizard as he made his way to the school's gates.

When they got there, Sherlock saw that the two security trolls stationed just outside the school had detained a man, one holding him still while the other stood in front of him, slapping his club against his hand threateningly. After a few gestures and grunts from Dumbledore, however, they released him. The headmaster waved his hand in front of the gates, murmuring incantations. The iron bars parted, opening slowly, and the man darted between them and onto the school grounds. Dumbledore sealed the gates once more before turning to the man and leading him away wordlessly.

He took them to the outer shell of the Forbidden Forest's trees, Sherlock drifting near them and watching from behind one of the thicker trunks slightly deeper in. The young Ravenclaw found it obvious this man was some sort of spy, and it was clear this was not the way he normally reported: Dumbledore had summoned him here specially.

"What news?" asked Dumbledore.

"What news?" repeated the man. "You stand there and ask me 'what news', you…who said she would be safe…," The man was obviously overcome by grief, and he grasped a tree near him for support as he sputtered at Dumbledore.

"Severus, it will do you little good to get angry with me, when—"

"Angry with you? You promised me you would protect her!"

"Sheffield was a ruse, wasn't it." Dumbledore stated the question rather than asking it. "It has happened, hasn't it," he said, his voice deep and heavy. "The Potters are dead." 

"Yes," spat the other man. "A spy from your side defected, I don't have a name, and they rushed to the Dark Lord tonight to tell him where they were hiding. Their house in Godric's Hollow is destroyed. Both Lily and…James are dead." When he said the name of the woman, Lily, the spy slumped against the tree behind it and slid down against the rough bark some ways, his shoulders caving in upon himself.

"The parents?" said Dumbledore sharply. "What about the son?" 

"He survived. Somehow. He's still there, in the rubble of the house."

Sherlock could tell that Dumbledore was shocked, his features clearly revealed as much in the moonlight filtering through the grounds. The headmaster spoke again to the other man, as if asking confirmation of something he had already been told or suspected himself. "And Voldemort has fallen?" Sherlock's heart fluttered at these words. Why would Dumbledore think that? He must have received more Patronuses in his office before heading out to meet this man named Severus…the members of his Order must have been keeping him informed. Sherlock's breath caught and he listened in rapt attention for the reply. 

"Yes," whispered the man named Severus. "He couldn't kill the Potter boy. Of course he would have tried to. That was the only reason he went at all," the last words were nothing more than a faint whisper.

Dumbledore was silent for several moments. Then, he said to the man, his voice not unkind, but not gentle, either, "Go wait in my office, Severus. Hagrid is there now, but I will call him out, I have a task for him." 

"What? Dumbledore, no, I—"

"We have more to discuss, Severus, but I also have much to attend to if this is true." He stepped towards him reached down to rap the wizard on the head with his wand, a wave of invisibility washing over him. Sherlock could recognize a Disillusionment Charm powerful to the point of perfect concealment. Once the man had vanished, Sherlock didn't know if he had left for Dumbledore's office, but the headmaster seemed confident that he had.

Dumbledore stepped away from the trees and raised his wand, a silver phoenix blooming from its tip as he cast the first Patronus Sherlock had ever seen in person. The phoenix soared rapidly away from Dumbledore and up to the castle, and Sherlock watched as he cast several others, each obviously bearing messages for members of the secret society, this Order. Even under the circumstances, while he was shaken by all that he had just heard, Sherlock couldn't help but admire Dumbledore's magnificent spellwork and how he was able to cast such powerful spells perfectly and nonverbally.

Sherlock whipped his head upwards as a he saw a huge silver form appear out of the corner of his eye. It was a large dog, another Patronus, and it swooped down to Dumbledore before giving him a brief message and dissolving into the air. Another came not long after, a lynx, and after that another animal that Sherlock couldn't recognize before it dissolved into the October air.

Dumbledore seemed to be waiting for something even after these Patronuses arrived, and he soon began to walk towards the castle. Sherlock saw Hagrid's large form and two other silhouettes making their way down towards them from the school. They all met halfway.

"Albus, is it true?" asked Professor Sprout. "Has he really gone?" 

"It would appear so," said Dumbledore. "Whether this is permanent, I cannot now say, but it seems that the war against Voldemort will soon be over." 

"But what happened?" asked Professor Flitwick, the third shadow.

"He just was at the Potters' house. Lily and James went into hiding some time ago, they knew he was after them." At the sound of Lily and James' names, Hagrid let out a huge sob and Dumbledore had to pause so that he could be heard by the other teachers as he talked. "They used the Fidelius Charm, and I offered to be their Secret-Keeper, but they decided to use an older, closer friend. It seems that he turned traitor against them, however, and Voldemort found their house in Godric's Hollow—the charm has broken now, and I can talk to you about it freely." 

Both Professor Sprout and Professor Flitwick clapped their hands to their mouths.

"Voldemort killed both Lily and James. Their son, Harry, survived, however. Somehow, Voldemort couldn't kill him. His power has broken; he is gone."

"But, Albus…do you have any idea how it happened? Such a thing is unheard of…," said Professor Sprout.

"Oh, several, but as of now none of them are anything more than pure speculation. I will need a few minutes to think it over myself. I have no doubt, however, that by tomorrow night I will have some idea of how Harry survived, at which point it will be vital that he is given protection. In fact, I suspect that the way he survived the killing curse, as none before him have ever done, will be linked to the protection I decide to give him." 

It was clear to Sherlock that the others had barely followed this vague and simplified explanation, and it left them with more questions than they had begun with.

"Even with the loss of Lily and James, however, this is surely the happiest night to have fallen on the Wizarding World in eleven years," said Dumbledore. He did not look happy as he said it. "The students have a right to know as soon as is possible. This means a great deal to many of their families…not to mention their rather extraordinary party-making abilities…." 

"Of course," said Professor Flitwick. "They were just leaving the Great Hall for their dormitories as we left. Perhaps we should have each of the heads of houses tell their students."

"Certainly," said Dumbledore. 

"An' me, Professor?" asked Hagrid, wiping his eyes with an enormous handkerchief that he had produced from some voluminous pocket. 

"There is something else I need from you, Hagrid," said Dumbledore. "Perhaps you would stay here to discuss it with me."

The other two teachers took this as their obvious dismissal, and together they turned and left for the castle again. Once they were out of earshot, Dumbledore turned to Hagrid.

"Hagrid, with Voldemort's downfall, there will be celebration, but there will also be mayhem in other ways. The Ministry will be in disarray. The Death Eaters will be trying to regroup, others of them attempting to flee. We will need to mobilize the Order, to have them convene at Headquarters." 

Hagrid nodded, his beard glistening with tears in the pale light. "An' you wan' me to go to 'eadqua'ters, Professor?" he asked.

"No, Mad-Eye is already assembling everyone that he can. Now, I need you to go and fetch Harry for me," he said.

Hagrid burst into renewed sobs, burying his face in his handkerchief and permitting Dumbledore to reach up and pat his shoulder consolingly. Once he had recovered somewhat, he raised his head and said "You…you wan' me to do tha', sir?" 

"Why, Hagrid, I can think of no better man," said Dumbledore kindly.

"Where should I take 'im, Professor?" 

"I am not sure, yet," said Dumbledore. "However, I will contact you immediately as soon as I have some clear idea myself." 

"Alrigh'," said Hagrid bracingly. "The house's in Godric's Hollow?"

"Yes," said Dumbledore.

"I 'spose I'll go now, then," said Hagrid, turning to walk towards the forest.

"Thank you, Hagrid," said Dumbledore. The gamekeeper nodded and retreated into the trees. _Hippogriffs_, thought Sherlock to himself. _Not thestrals, they're not strong enough. He'll have to get there by one of the school hippogriffs._

Dumbledore sighed into the night air, evidently thinking himself alone. He looked down at the ground, clearly thinking hard, before bringing his gaze up again. As he did so, Sherlock thought that the older wizard focused in on him, and he froze. The last thing Sherlock needed was for Dumbledore to realize that he was here _now_, for the headmaster to find Sherlock watching him and eavesdropping as he prepared to react to what was surely one of the most important events in recent Wizarding history. It was only a brief moment, however, and then Dumbledore's electric blue eyes were roaming across the grounds again as he began to pace back and forth in the grass. The more Sherlock analyzed the moment, the more he thought that he must have imagined it, and that Dumbledore was sure to not have noticed him. _Irrational_, he chided himself. The chances of Dumbledore seeing him in this light and with a Disillusionment Charm were extremely small, especially when he was so intent upon other things.

Sherlock watched as Dumbledore paced around the grounds for several minutes, lost in thought. At one point he even sat down among the rutabaga in the vegetable patch, and Sherlock could see the form of Hagrid astride a hippogriff outlined against the sky as it rose up above the trees behind Dumbledore. A few minutes after that, however, the headmaster had apparently made up his mind about something, for he began to hike up to the castle again.

Sherlock followed Dumbledore through the main doors, and once inside he trailed after the other wizard into the Great Hall and through a side door that lead to a back way to the headmaster's office, one that Sherlock had found before but never had occasion to use. The boisterous noises of the rest of the school were audible from the other side of the Entrance Hall, and clearly Dumbledore wished to avoid them. Sherlock shadowed Dumbledore up to his office, but he knew there was no way that he'd be able to follow him inside.

Sherlock leaned against the wall of the same alcove he had found before, then slid down the polished stone to sit on the floor inelegantly. He frowned to himself, thinking deeply. So Voldemort was gone. Sherlock didn't try to mask the feeling of joy in his chest. His own Muggle blood would have made him a target for Voldemort's regime, and as much as he hated other people, and as little as he could stand them and their frivolous lives, he detested Voldemort. He preyed upon people who were different, and this was what made him so deplorable to Sherlock.

And it hadn't been a team of well-trained Aurors, or even Dumbledore himself, who had finally taken Voldemort down, but a small boy? Sherlock tried to extrapolate the boy's age from what had been said about him…he couldn't be more than five. Someone so young may not have even had magic begin to manifest in them yet, it was possible they may not be aware of its presence, and they certainly wouldn't have any control over it. So why was it that Voldemort had been unable to kill him? Magical theory was a field unknown to Sherlock—he had had little use for it so far and had never pursued it. Perhaps this was a new realm to explore?

Sherlock had subconsciously decided to stay there until Dumbledore emerged again, waiting. He had decided to watch Dumbledore for the evening, and it was now clear that where the headmaster was would be where the most interesting and important things at the school would be happening. Sherlock didn't even spare a thought to the other students learning about Voldemort's downfall, the idea of them having this knowledge was so insignificant to him.

The first hour Sherlock's brain whirred around the things he had heard and observed, trying to piece together the facts, what he had tried to fill in as the teachers and the gamekeeper talked, and what he could try to incorporate from his previous knowledge. The fact was, unfortunately, that Sherlock was relatively isolated while at Hogwarts and he didn't get much opportunity to leave the school or connect with the outside Wizarding World. It was difficult for him to understand the whole context of the war against Voldemort from this position.

The second hour, Sherlock began to tire of his circular guessing games, and he slumped against the wall more dispassionately. The third hour, he was entering the Sherlock stage of boredom where his mind began to feel like it was thrusting itself against a wall of oppressive sedation, trying to escape but not having the force to do it. He sunk into lethargy and waited in the corridor silently, without moving. There was nothing for him to do, but he didn't want to leave and miss Dumbledore's return, should he emerge. Sometime during the fourth hour he admitted to himself that though it was unlikely Dumbledore would remain in his office for the rest of the night, it was most probably the case that he had already left by some other means. It was true that you couldn't Apparate or Disapparate inside the Hogwarts grounds, but Sherlock knew that Dumbledore would have easily been able to devise another means of departing, especially with his power as headmaster. Perhaps he had even lifted the enchantment for a few minutes so as to let himself Disapparate.

Sherlock stayed there like that for most of the night, waiting without any real expectation of seeing Dumbledore there again. Early in the morning, perhaps an hour before the sun would rise on the Hogwarts grounds again, he fell asleep against the stone wall.

John was finally beginning to forget Dumbledore's disquieted look, laughing with Sarah at the Headless Hunt as it was chased mercilessly around the Bloody Baron; the unwary ghosts had accidentally allowed one of their heads to soar through his bloodstained torso, and the Slytherin ghost had not taken to it kindly. After they had finally been chased from the hall and relative order restored, the desserts arrived, and John dug in with gusto.

The sun had long gone down by the time the school began to exit the hall, the students winding their ways back to their dormitories. John and Sarah followed the other Gryffindor first years, Sarah already yawning as she walked. They were quieter than the other students, who were still talking and laughing.

"I thought I saw a fleck of silver blood fly off with the head, too—"

"—I mean, really, they wouldn't pull a prank like that, even if it is called blood pudding—"

"D'you think we'll get to start classes late tomorrow? Everyone's always up later when there's the feast." 

"—what he said, they said he was gone!" 

"No way, he can't just vanish, not like that—"

"How can we be sure—?"

"Who told you that?" 

"Wait, what? Who's missing?" asked John. He looked around, trying to find who was talking. A Ravenclaw girl he didn't know answered him.

"Someone's talking about You-Know-Who being gone, apparently, but—"

"_What?_" said John, stopping still and grabbing Sarah's sleeve, staring at the Ravenclaw girl.

"But I don't know where they heard it, it's got to be some stupid rumor—"

"Someone's saying You-Know-Who's gone?" asked Sarah.

"Yeah, but—"

"YOU-KNOW-WHO'S GONE!" Shouted another voice from some other part of the crowd. For a moment—a brief sliver of time when all movement and thought in the castle momentarily froze—there was silence. If an owl had hooted outside, perhaps it would have been audible in the Entrance Hall where they all immediately stopped where they stood. Then—

Pandemonium. Half the people in the crowd screamed with joy—the other half immediately shouted, "_WHAT?_", setting aside the few people who just stood there, flabbergasted. There was an uproar of noise, louder than any Quidditch final had ever produced at the castle, and people began to run in every which way. Students wanted to find their friends, their siblings—a few even started looking for the nearest teacher to demand if it were true.

John grabbed hold of Sarah's hand without thinking to keep them from being separated as people near them screamed and started jumping up and down in the air, or else trying to reach each other. There were several minutes of mayhem, where John tried to hear himself think over the noise, daring to believe it before he could check himself. You-Know-Who gone! It was something he'd never thought of happening like this, not something a single phrase could describe…he'd lived almost his entire life under the shadow of the war, before he was even old enough to understand it was happening.

A huge, cacophonous _BANG!_ sounded as a huge firecracker shot into the air—at first John thought it was a student celebrating, but then he saw that Professor Flitwick was standing at the top of the marble staircase, his wand in the air and smoking. Professor Sprout and Professor Vector, who John knew taught Arithmancy but whom he'd never met, were standing next to him.

The firecracker, though obviously intended to pacify the school in some way so the teachers could address them, was very ineffective in calming the students down. It took two more from the end of Professor Flitwick's wand, joined by others from the other two teachers', for most of the school to finally stop screaming and look up at them from below.

"Please!" boomed Professor Sprout's voice, magically magnified after she cast a quick spell to her throat. "Remain calm! Students are to be escorted to their common rooms by each house's head and prefects! There you will receive more information. For now, HOWEVER—" she now had to shout, even with the added charm, to make herself heard over the tumult, "—PLEASE REMAIN QUIET AS YOU MOVE TO YOUR COMMON ROOMS!"

Perhaps it was more effective than if the teachers had done nothing, but Professor Sprout's announcement did little to curb the students' excitement and noise-making. _More information_, thought John, _that must mean that something happened! _He grabbed Sarah in a hug, and she gripped him back firmly, laughing over his shoulder. He pulled back quickly and they beamed at each other before looking at the other Gryffindors and chanting, "He's gone! He's gone! He's gone!" Slowly other students began to take up the chant, soon it felt like the entire school had joined in, like a triumphant war hymn, and the Gryffindors kept it up all the way to the seventh floor, marching together to their common room, conducted from on high by Anisha and the other prefects, Professor Sinistra grinning alongside them, even though she wasn't singing.

The Fat Lady seemed to have already heard the news by the time that they got there, and she was giggling with two other witches who had run into her portrait with cheeks as pink as her dress. She didn't ask for a password, but just swung open to allow the entire house to clamber through the portrait hole, one after the other.

Understandably, this took some time. By the time John and Sarah were climbing through together, the war chant had died down and everyone was talking excitedly to each other, and when they made it to the other side John saw the common room more packed than he had ever seen it before. Students were sharing chairs, sitting on pillows, and some were bouncing up and down with energy, not even bothering to try to sit. Personal space was something long forgotten in the excitement, and no one seemed to care that they were squashed together as they waited for everyone to climb in so they could hear from Professor Sinistra.

John and Sarah couldn't find a chair to themselves, but they found a patch of carpet near the back where they sat, craning their necks every other second to watch the portrait hole, waiting for an end to the steady stream of students, grinning absurdly at each other in between. Finally, the last students climbed through, and the Fat Lady's portrait swung shut over the hole again.

"Alright, everyone, please quiet down!" called Professor Sinistra, standing on top of the stone edge around the fireplace. She was more successful than Professor Sprout had been before, now that the Gryffindors had blown off some steam and she had managed to shepherd them into their common room. John remembered how he hadn't seen Professor McGonagall at the feast, and wondered where she was so that Professor Sinistra was presiding over them instead.

"The castle received news tonight during the feast that You-Know-Who has vanished," she said, speaking louder and louder as the sentence went on so as to hold their attention. At these words, however, there was another great cheer, and Professor Sinistra beamed at them before making frantic shushing gestures with her arms to get them to settle down again. John's heart nearly stopped in his chest, hearing her speak the words, and Sarah's hand shot over to grip John's hand tightly.

"We don't know all the details yet, of course, but he does appear to really be gone," continued Professor Sinistra, seeming to be giddy with happiness herself. There was another cheer, but this one subsided relatively quickly. "Now, we ask you all to stay in your common room for the evening," she continued. "We don't need anyone to get lost now, and certainly _no one _is to leave the castle—even if He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has disappeared, his supporters are still at large beyond the castle, and we don't know how long it will be before they're under control." 

"Without You-Know-Who, they'll all be rounded up soon enough," whispered John to Sarah. "He'd the one who holds the whole thing together." She nodded, staring at Professor Sinistra intently. 

"I'm sure that we'll tell you more when we know more ourselves, but it's only just happened this evening," said Professor Sinistra. She beamed at them once again. "I have to go talk to the other teachers now, but I trust your prefects can watch you all, and remember, don't leave the common room. And I probably shouldn't be telling you this, but…I would hazard a guess that classes will be cancelled tomorrow." 

There was yet more cheering as Professor Sinistra left the common room, and as soon as the portrait hole had swung shut yet again, Anisha replaced her at the front of the room and shouted "HE'S GONE!" pumping her fist in the air. 

"HE'S GONE!" the other Gryffindors repeated, everyone getting to their feet and jumping up in the air with joy. Sarah hugged John again, then pulled back and danced on the tips of her toes, laughing madly.

What followed was the best party John had ever witnessed in his life. Someone pulled the old wireless out of the corner, and soon music was blasting through the common room. Someone else let off a box of Filibuster fireworks that they watched fizzle across the ceiling together, and after about an hour, some of the older students turned up with butterbeer, apparently having sneaked out of the castle despite Professor Sinistra's warning. When John asked, he got a long explanation from Reg and Andrew about a secret passage behind a mirror on the fourth floor, but as soon as they started talking about it, Anisha excused herself, blushing. John was sure he had seen her leave the common room with the two boys some time ago, and he had a suspicion that her hasty departure had something to do with the large crates of butterbeer now being cracked open and her status as prefect.

Everyone at Hogwarts had long known that Gryffindors threw the best parties. No one was paying attention to the rule about staying in there own common room; there had been a steady stream of Gryffindors leaving to see siblings, friends, and significant others and revel in the news together, as well as a steady stream of students from other houses coming to do the same thing. So, of course, once the students started to realize that the real party was in Gryffindor tower, they invited their friends, too. The party grew to be at least five times the size and magnitude of anything John had been to after a Quidditch game. They hadn't won the cup the year before, but he doubted that even if they had that the post-match game would have been anything like this.

John was a lousy dancer, but so was the rest of Gryffindor, and so some Ravenclaws led them from about one o'clock to two in the morning as the wireless pumped out upbeat music. One of them cast a tricky little spell so that the torches in the brackets near the ceiling flashed different colors, and they hurriedly turned off all the other lights. No one was getting tired, and as John danced horribly alongside Sarah, he couldn't help but think that she kept edging closer and closer to him throughout the night. He dismissed this, however; the common room was packed with rowdy, euphoric teenagers, and free space to breathe was scarce.

Of course, in the early hours of the party, owls kept arriving, sent by parents, and beating their talons against the windows, demanding to be let in. A small alcove in the circular room was left free for students to read and respond to letters, but John wasn't sure how they were able to think anything more coherent than "HE'S GONE!" above the din.

All in all, John couldn't believe that no teachers were coming to bust them and confiscate the butterbeer, making them all go up to bed. When he shouted this to Anisha around four in the morning, however, she yelled back, "It's because they're all off having their own wild party, half of them are probably drunk anyway!" John just shook his head and laughed, but he couldn't help an image of the teachers partying uncontrollably in Dumbledore's study from popping up inside his head.

Once the sun rose outside, students from other houses finally began to trickle out, and a few people started to climb the stairs to the dormitories, having to pause every few steps because of the exhaustion they'd been ignoring the whole time. John realized, coming back to reality, that he was probably going to get something like two or three hours of sleep that night (morning) and then have to be up for demanding teachers. If Professor McGonagall was back from wherever she'd gone, he wouldn't put it past her to hold class at the normal time, and give them detention if they didn't bring homework to hand in.

When he'd finally settled down in his four-poster, John fell asleep with surprising ease. His dreams were frenzied, confused: full of faceless wizards who disappeared in sparks, parents who picked off Death Eaters and then stood over Harry, giving her their blessing, and then Sarah, edging closer and closer under the mask of the loud and energetic party, the torches flashing different colors over her face as they laughed together….

**A/N: Okay! So, hopefully it's fairly easy to see where that all fits in with the book. Sherlock doesn't see everything that happens that night, obviously, so there are some gaps that we can fill in with Harry Potter canon. The conversation between Snape and Dumbledore that Harry sees in the Penseive in the seventh book takes place later. Also, remember that Harry gets delivered to the Dursleys' on November 1, because McGonagall has been watching them all day after Hagrid told her that Dumbledore would be there. I made her missing from Hogwarts Halloween night because in the book she needs confirmation from Dumbledore about Voldemort having fallen, so if the news was spread around Hogwarts she would have had to be somewhere else not to hear it.**

**Thanks for sticking with me, and I hope you enjoyed it!**


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

Sherlock picked himself off the floor by pushing against the slick stone with one hand, wiping his nose with the sleeve of his other arm. He ignored the hand that was extended out to him, not meeting the older boy's eyes. A streak of red came away on his right sleeve.

"Okay?" asked the older boy. He was a prefect, a Gryffindor, and there were many other much more specific details about him that Sherlock was starting to be able to deduce.

The younger boy nodded, even though the movement brought sharp pain to half his spine. Where most would have said "thank you," all Sherlock managed was a sort of "mmmhgh" noise.

The prefect seemed concerned by this rather than offended, looking at him with his brow furrowed and lips pressed together. "I think your nose is broken. How long were they at it?"

Sherlock, who knew perfectly well that his nose was broken, answered slowly. "Several minutes. Approximately seventeen."

The older boy let out a low whistle. Maybe seventeen minutes didn't sound very long, but the prefect knew that being punched and kicked against a stone floor in the boys' bathroom by three older students for seventeen minutes straight was no small thing, and it clearly hadn't ended well for this small second year.

"And you don't know who they were?"

"One was the captain of the Slytherin Quidditch team. Another was his younger brother, who had just come from a detention with Hadaway, and the third was the same boy who broke your telescope last week."

The prefect froze and stared at him. "Gordan? Damn, it looked like him. How do you know he broke my telescope last week?"

"Easy," said Sherlock, wiping his nose again and pulling away yet more blood. He tried to turn up his nose in distaste, but that was difficult in its present condition. "Simple deduction."

"Here, let me do something about your nose," said the other boy. Sherlock nodded once to give him permission. He could tell that this older boy's charm work and transfiguration were good, but that he shouldn't trust him with potioneering. "_Episky!_" said the prefect, and Sherlock heard a small click and felt his nose realign itself. He put his hand up to it to feel the difference, and felt that it had resumed its normal shape and didn't seem to be broken anymore. But it was still caked with blood.

"I'm Greg Lestrade, by the way," the boy said, holding out a hand.

"Sherlock Holmes," said Sherlock, without taking it.

Lestrade detracted the hand with an awkward smile. "How did you know about the telescope?"

"Simple," repeated Sherlock. "Like figuring out that the other one had come from detention with Hadaway."

"But how?"

"I observe. Just go off the things everyone else sees but doesn't really notice. I also know that your family used to be quite well-to-do within the Wizarding World, but the war has made you less so, though only in recent years, and that you are the reserve Chaser on the Gryffindor team this year, even though you didn't have a tryout."

"Well, you could find all that out from other students, just gossip," said Lestrade, but he was regarding Sherlock critically. "But…I'm wondering…could you help me find out something else? You probably do owe me a favor after a stepped in and pulled them off you."

Sherlock felt annoyance at this. Yes, he probably did owe him a favor, and he hated having to rely on other people or be indebted to them. But clearly Sherlock hadn't been winning any fights recently, and he had in fact been giving up on resisting the other boys by the time Lestrade had shown up.

"You could just tell me whenever you can, once you've found out, if you're so observant. I'm not really in a rush, but…" _Clearly not_, Sherlock thought, mentally rolling his eyes at the amount of time it was taking the other boy to get the words out. "Could you find out if my girlfriend…. Is she cheating on me?"

"Yes."

Lestrade stared. "But—I haven't even told you her name!"

"I don't need it," said Sherlock. "Yes, she is cheating on you. With a Hufflepuff a year behind you."

Lestrade opened his mouth, staring around the bathroom in agitation. "That _gargoyle_," he whispered. "But how do you know?" He demanded, looking at Sherlock.

"Your hat," Sherlock said simply, nodding at it.

"My hat?"  
"Yes. Clearly no self-respecting girlfriend who still loved you would let you walk away from breakfast wearing it in that state."

"It's not that bad!" said Lestrade defensively.

"Yes, it is," said Sherlock. "At least, in the opinion of the fifth-year girl who you chose mainly out of looks and whom you already suspect of shallow motives. She would have pointed out all the dust and the way your hem is coming away across the side if she really cared anymore. But she doesn't, and you clearly suspect her of cheating if you're willing to ask a second year you just met about it. If it were just a small suspicion, you'd be guarding it more closely. Therefore, the probability that it's true is larger. Not guaranteed, of course, people can be paranoid, but the probability is greater."

"And the fourth year Hufflepuff?"

"I don't always explain everything," said Sherlock, doing his best attempt at dignified mystery while his face was still covered in his own blood and he could barely put weight on one of his legs. "But I'm quite certain that if you look into it, you'll find I'm right."

Lestrade gave him a searching look, then nodded slightly, as if only to himself. "We should get you up to the hospital wing. You clearly need it, Sherlock. Then…I'm going to go have a talk with Amanda." This last part was said more to himself than to Sherlock. Sherlock smirked.

John sat with his back up against the rough bark of the tree, looking out over the grounds as the February snow fell in delicate flakes and twinkled in the sunlight all around him. The cold bit at the tips of his nose and ears, and even though he'd been sitting under that same tree for nearly half and hour, he felt no desire to get up and go back to the castle or to find his hat and scarf. John just stayed there, ignoring the wet cold that had been seeping into his clothes, ignoring the occasional shouts from the students who were closer to the lake. The past few months, ever since Voldemort's downfall, had been especially cheerful all throughout the school, but this didn't affect John anymore. If anything, it could only make him feel more acrimonious. There was a book in his bag next to him, but it was the same book he'd checked out of the library a month ago and hadn't even opened yet, and he didn't feel anything close to a desire to reach for it.

The snow falling around him would have been enchanting a year before, when he'd had snowball fights with the other students. Sometimes the tips of the waves travelling across the Black Lake's surface would glint in the sun, and as he gazed out over it John saw a fleshy pink tentacle rise out of the water near the shore and students immediately running towards it and shrieking in excitement. John barely blinked, and he sighed slightly out of his nose. Were two of them Harry and Clara? He couldn't tell from here, but he decided that they were, anyway. _Let them have their fun_, he thought bitterly, remembering one of the few times he'd talked to Harry within the past two months, just after they'd both been given the news.

_He'd been sitting on top of the rumpled covers his bed in his dormitory, pulling his knees up closer to his face and hugging his folded legs tightly to keep in the small pool of guilt and loneliness that was puddling up inside his stomach, to stop it spreading. _No, no, no, no, no, no…._ how could it have happened? He'd barely written to them that year, and over the summer he had wanted so badly to leave them and get away to Hogwarts, and now they were gone…maybe, if he'd held on closer, written them more, just said "I love you" one more time….maybe…._

_ There was nothing he could do now. There was nothing he wanted to do, no where he wanted to go, no one he wanted to see, nothing that would make this any less real or make it stop. John could barely remember what had happened after he heard the news from Dumbledore's own mouth in his circular office, with he and Harry sitting in chairs side by side as the headmaster looked at them gravely over his half-moon spectacles. The Watson parents were dead. _

_Death Eaters…right after everything had been changing, everyone starting to breathe again and reveling in the fact that Who-Know-Who was gone, right when they'd all been starting to feel safe. Mr. and Mrs. Watson, as well as some other Aurors, including a couple named Longbottom, and another man whose name John didn't remember or particularly care about, had all been there too, cornered by the Death Eaters, tortured and killed. John had been going to see them in three days when Christmas break started. Now he would never see them again._

_The dormitory door had creaked open, and John heard a floorboard squeak with a single footstep. All the other boys had left him alone in the room the entire evening, either out of respect for his grief or because they were avoiding him, not knowing how to behave in front of someone who has just lost both their parents. "John?" said a voice softly._

_ John didn't respond. There was a pause, and then Harry made her way over to sit on the end of his bed, in all the space John had left as he pulled himself into a smaller and smaller ball near the headboard. Harry didn't try to say anything, just frowned at him, her face sad. Her eyes were dry. How much had she cried earlier? Or had she not cried at all? _Don't think that, John_, he thought to himself. _We both loved them, even if we didn't always say it…she must have been crying...

_ "John…," Harry reached for his hand, but John only gripped his own legs more tightly to keep them away from her touch. _

_ "I don't want to talk to you right now," he said, his voice breaking and harsh._

_ "Why not? You obviously need to talk to someone," said Harry, looking at him worriedly._

_ "No, I don't!" John yelled. He didn't know why he was being so rude to her, only that he didn't want to talk, didn't want to sleep, didn't want to do anything. Because he didn't know _what_ to do._

_ "John, you can't just hide away like this!"_

_"And what have you been doing?"_

_ "Well, I've…I've been with Clara—but now I'm trying to talk to you!" she said angrily over the sound of his snort when she mentioned her girlfriend._

_ "Well I don't want to. So go back to kissing Clara."_

_"Maybe I will!" said Harry, standing up and leaving the room, not bothering to close the door again behind her. _

_ John didn't know what made him say it…he knew she hadn't just been snogging Clara all evening, clearly she was upset too…they both were…and now his sister had left, too…._Don't overreact, John, it'll all be okay with Harry..._ But it just so wasn't. And why had he acted like that? _

_ John finally released his limbs, all aching from how tightly he'd been holding on, and rolled over to lay down with his face in the blankets, beginning to sob into them. _

The memory of that scene made John frown, casting his glance away from the giant squid in the lake and glaring down at the snowy ground in front of him. He was ashamed of the way he had treated Harry, but no matter how much shame and regret bundled up inside him, he still never went to Harry to apologize. They just didn't talk. And John didn't want to lose her too, but he felt that there was a current making him drift further and further away from her.

John didn't know how long after that it had been when crunching footsteps alerted him that someone else was walking towards him. He looked up and saw that it was Sarah. John supposed that he should stand up to greet her, but he ended up just staring at her making her solitary way towards him for some time before he pushed himself up from the tree.

"Hi, John," she said tentatively.

"Hi," he said back, then coughed into his gloved hand to clear his voice. It also broke the uncomfortable eye contact, and when he looked up again she was looking at him quizzically.

"Um," she said. "Well. I was just wondering…if you wanted to play chess this evening. Or now. Maybe. In the common room."

_She's being sweet _John thought to himself. At first he wanted to say no. Well, it wasn't so much that he wanted to, as much as that was what he assumed he would do. But hadn't he just been thinking that he had been wrong to yell at Harry and shut her out? When was the last time that Sarah and he had done something together, besides sharing the same table in class and transfiguring the same teacup? Didn't he owe her a little more attention, when he had been one of her closest friends for the past year and a half?

"Um, okay," said John, shyly, almost. "Do you…" he cleared his throat again. "D'you want to go now?"

"Sure," said Sarah, nodding with a small smile that was caught somewhere between hesitant and pleased.

So John reached down for his bag and the two of them started off towards the castle together. At first they didn't talk, and John felt like he wanted to say something, but he wasn't sure how to start.

"Have you played chess in a while?" Sarah asked.

_Maybe this is how she's a Gryffindor_, John thought to himself, noting how her outreach to him showed a different kind of bravery than the kind that the house normally gave the most attention.

"No, not since…I guess the last time we played. That was probably in…early December?" he responded.

"Mmmm….I think so," answered Sarah. "But I got a new set at Christmas, so we can try it out together. I've played with it a bit, but they're not really broken in yet."

"That's good," said John. "They, er…probably don't know you so well yet."

"Exactly," said Sarah. There was a lengthy pause after this, and John thought that maybe he was supposed to say the next thing.

"How's Quidditch been? I missed the last match."

"Still not so great. You remember how we lost to Slytherin in November, and last month Ravenclaw beat Slytherin, which won't mean good things for Gryffindor."

"That's true," said John. He looked up to see they were almost at the Entrance Hall doors, and felt slightly relieved. The sooner they got to the common room, the sooner he wouldn't have to talk and they could play a game of chess more quietly. "Was it a close match, though?"

"Not really. Not the way matches can be, but Ravenclaw didn't crush them. It was something like forty minutes before their Seeker caught the Snitch, and the scores weren't super far apart before that."

They entered the castle and talked a little more about classes before they had made it to the Fat Lady's portrait in front of the Gryffindor common room.

"Bugul noz," said Sarah, and the portrait swung open to admit them. Once they had crawled in, Sarah said "If you go find a chair, I can run up and get my set."

"Okay," said John. He did as she had asked, waiting patiently and hoping that he was making the right decision. But what else would he have _wanted _to do that day?

When Sarah returned with the chess set, she smiled at him slightly before taking everything out to set it up. John smiled too, albeit a small one, but she had already looked away and was putting all the pieces in place.

"Do you want to be white or black?" she asked.

"Um, I don't really care," said John.

"Then I'll go first, and you can have the black pieces," said Sarah, smiling at him teasingly. He smiled back, felt the atmosphere between them brighten just a little bit. Just a sliver.

Their first game was short, since John lost pretty quickly, but Sarah suggested that they play again and the next time John did much better. They played a third game after that, and even though Sarah won again, it took her over and hour to do it, by which time is was time for dinner. This time, it was John who offered that they go together, and Sarah jumped up with a smile for them to do so.

It wasn't like it had been. And John kept finding himself drifting away, and staring off sadly at something else in the hall. Everything they said to each other was much more formal than they'd ever been together. Sarah had other friends at dinner who kept wanting to talk to her, and John could tell that she was paying less attention to them than she normally may have since she was trying to keep John involved.

But it was better. A lot better than the past two months had been. _Maybe things could go back to what they used to be a bit more? _John wondered to himself. _Maybe? _But as he crawled into bed that night, John realized that even spending a few hours with Sarah, talking more than they had in the past few days combined, didn't mean that they would be on the same terms again anytime soon. And it didn't change the empty feeling in the pit of his stomach that John had been carrying around ever since that news from Dumbledore. It didn't chance the fact that now that the war was over, everyone around him was starting to recover, like green shoots and leaves sprouting from overturned soil after a long, long, winter, while John just hung around the edge, feeling that nothing right would ever happen to him again.


	7. Chapter 7

**AN: Hello, again! Two long chapters...I'm excited. :) **

Third Year

Chapter 7

The season of summer still hadn't ended, and the Scottish countryside was still bathing in humid days that lasted hours later than light held out at Sherlock's house in Sussex. But the summer holidays were over, and Sherlock was back again at Hogwarts for the year. And this year looked like it might be very different from his first two.

Soon after Sherlock had told Lestrade about his girlfriend, the prefect had come to him again with a problem that he wanted Sherlock to solve—this one was also related to dating, since a Gryffindor girl he knew had come to him and said that her boyfriend had disappeared and she couldn't figure out what had happened. When she had gone to Professor McGonagall to report him missing, the Transfiguration teacher had told her that he never existed in the first place, which both confused and shocked her, and made her run straight to Lestrade for help. Sherlock had found it a painfully easy problem to solve, and a rather short and simple investigation had brought him straight back to Lestrade and ready to illuminate the full picture; her older brother had gotten one of his friends to impersonate a fake boyfriend for her to date, in order to keep her away from her ex, who was Muggle born. The fact that the situation had arisen out of such bigotry made Sherlock sigh and roll his eyes at the stupidity of the whole lot of them, but he didn't show any more emotion rather than exasperation to Lestrade when he reported the facts. It made him twinge with sadness inside, just slightly, but this sadness was a feeling he had now learned to suppress. He hoped to become impervious to it.

After that there were others. Lestrade seemed to have quite a number of people who came to him with their problems, since he appeared to be quite popular and influential, in the older years especially. Whenever it was something that needed actual investigation, rather than just advice, Lestrade would pass the case along to Sherlock, who started to relish solving them. Hogwarts was a complicated school, and Sherlock soon learned that the deduction skills he had been cultivating for years were ideal for this kind of work. Solving the puzzles Lestrade brought to him became more than a hobby for Sherlock—it became his obsession.

Sherlock spent most of his second Transfiguration class of the year reading about Patronuses with his book under the table. No one sat with him, and he had the table all to himself to transfigure the shoe he had been given into a porcelain serving dish. Within the first fifteen minutes he had managed to turn the old trainer from dish to trainer to dish to trainer and back to dish again, so he declared his work done for the day and pulled out his book. Patronuses interested Sherlock not because of their use in repelling dementors (he knew his chances of encountering one were very small), but because of the practicality of being able to use them to send messages. And there was something else, too...it seemed to Sherlock that Patronuses, being so difficult and demanding of their caster, were sometimes seen as a measure of how powerful someone was as a witch or a wizard. So, of course, it was something he was itching to try.

"Mr. Holmes, if you would please come up here for a moment," barked Professor McGonagall from behind her desk at the front of the classroom.

Sherlock looked up. The rest of the class was filing out the door, having obviously just been dismissed at the end of the lesson, and a few of them were casting backwards glances at him. Sherlock snapped his book shut, not bothering to mask it, and traipsed up to stand in front of Professor McGonagall.

Professor McGonagall cleared her throat and adjusted her square-framed spectacles with the tips of her fingers before beginning. "Mr. Holmes, I am afraid I must reprimand you for attempting to read during my class. What makes you think that you are so above your classmates and gives you such a right?" She fixed him with a piercing stare that Sherlock knew any other student would have quailed underneath.

"I finished the assigned task, so I decided to move on to my own."

"I see," said Professor McGonagall. "May I ask what you were reading?" She held out her hand for the book. It wasn't a request.

Sherlock handed it over. "Hmm," she said. "Patronuses. For someone as young as yourself?"

"My age has nothing to do with it. It's a practical spell to learn."

"And have you learned it?" asked Professor McGonagall.

"Not yet. I haven't had a chance to attempt it," answered Sherlock.

Professor McGonagall gave a little "harumph"ing noise. "Well, you shall have to tell me how you fare. However, this is what not what I wanted to speak to you about." Sherlock said nothing, and she continued to regard him harshly over the rims of her spectacles. After a short pause, she continued. "I have heard from Greg Lestrade that you have a knack for solving problems. Not disagreements, but things more akin to mysteries, that you are good at investigating. He says you can...deduce things, and see things that others do not."

Sherlock gave her a nod to show he understood. "I'm the best. I could tell you what you ate for breakfast this morning, that you grew up with family tension because one of your parents didn't wish to reveal their magic to the other, and that yes, you really would do well to write to Miss Mayfair's parents even though you are undecided about the matter."

Professor McGonagall narrowed her eyes at him and pursed her lips. After another pause, she proceeded again. "In that case, I have a puzzle for you, Mr. Holmes. Although I must impress upon you its seriousness. This is not something I bring to you for your own amusement, obviously, but something concerning the school's best interests."

"Yes," said Sherlock. He understood all too well—to him, everyone thought their problems were serious, no matter how trifling they were. What mattered to him most was the excitement and intrigue he could get out of them.

"Hagrid found a dead unicorn in the Forbidden Forest this week, which makes three within the past month. This is an unprecedented amount, and the forest's unicorn population can be extremely fragile since unicorns reproduce so rarely and often have only one foal at a time. Therefore, Hagrid would, of course, like to find their killer, and he is convinced it is the same person."

Sherlock nodded. "You want me to track down the killer for you?"

"_Help_ track down the killer, Mr. Holmes. Do not make the mistake of thinking you will just be given free reign on this assignment."

"Yes, yes, of course," said Sherlock, nearly waving a hand at her to dismiss the reminder. He restrained himself, but had the feeling that she knew exactly what he had almost done. Even if he weren't in her house, Sherlock knew it was best not to outwardly disrespect the Transfiguration teacher.

"Tomorrow night Hagrid will be going into the forest with two students who have earned detention, and Mr. Lestrade, who has agreed with me to go along so as to assist Hagrid and offer more authority to keep the other two students in check. You are to accompany them and do your best to find out anything that you think would help you discern the person who killed the unicorns."

"I don't work well with others."

"Try to," said Professor McGonagall flatly. "You're not going in there on your own."

Sherlock sighed. "Fine."

"Yes, I expect it to be," she said, giving him a look as she did so. "You are also to tell Hagrid and myself everything that you find. If everything Lestrade has told me is true, this should be right up your ally."

"Excellent," said Sherlock, smiling smugly.

The Transfiguration teacher sighed slightly and regarded him with a beady stare. "Do you have any questions, Mr. Holmes?"

"No, I'm sure I can have them tracked down in a few days, a week at the very longest, but I highly doubt it will take me quite that long. That's the thing with killers like this—they always make a mistake. You just have to catch them at it!" Sherlock said happily.

"If that's all then, Mr. Holmes, then you are dismissed," said Professor McGonagall, seeming to disapprove of his reaction to the task. "Meet Hagrid and the others outside his cabin at nine o'clock tomorrow night, sharp."

Sherlock nodded one final time, and then flounced out of the room with elation. Once he was in the empty hallway and out of Professor McGonagall's earshot, he jumped up off both his feet, making fists in the air. "YES!" he cried. None of his cases so far had been anything like this—this was something that would really stretch his abilities, more than anything that he'd solved last year or in his first week back at Hogwarts. And if Professor McGonagall, of all people, wanted to come to him with a case, that showed just how impressive his abilities were. Of course, Sherlock had known they were the whole time, but coming from McGonagall it was a different thing...her consulting him spoke multitudes.

* * *

John's first Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson of the year did not go well. The new professor, Professor Ellison, seemed to be on neither of the extreme ends in terms of strictness, but she did decide to have them start off by pairing up and practicing some defensive spells with each other. Of course, John had found himself hovering on the periphery of the class. He couldn't make himself interject to find a partner, but his classmates were already sorting themselves out and one of Sarah's friends seemed to have clutched her arm in a death grip as soon as the word "partner" was out of Professor Ellison's mouth. John had ended up being a third person tacked onto the pair that happened to be standing next to him, since that was where Ellison automatically pointed to assign him when he didn't have a partner. The whole situation made John so uncomfortable, and it came after spending a summer nearly alone in a house that had always been meant to contain parents, separated from Harry by at least one story at almost all times (she had turned seventeen and inherited the house). Combined, all this made John so distracted that his spellwork was pitiful, and he was sure that Professor Ellison was taking due note of this, as she spent a disproportionate amount of time watching John's group of three.

As soon as the bell rang, John ran out of the class and made his way to the Potions room at a pace that was almost a jog. He had no reason to stay anywhere else, and he wanted desperately to be alone. If there was anywhere that was unlikely to attract gaggles of lollygagging students, it was the dungeons right before a Potions lesson.

With this in mind, John fully expected to be the first one in the classroom, but when he strode in through the doorway and finally took his eyes from the floor, he saw that there was already someone there. The student was tall, but in the lanky, slightly awkward way that someone who has just hit a growth spurt is, with the blue hem of his robes' collar peeking out from curly black hair. John frowned; they always had Potions class with the Slytherins, not the Ravenclaws. Could it be that this rule had finally changed? It was about _time. _It seemed suicide for the school administrators to group the Gryffindors with the Slytherins for classes together, and they never had anything with the Ravenclaws. John thought he could count the number of Ravenclaws he knew on a first-name basis on one hand.

John would have taken a seat as far away from this other boy as possible, but there was one other thing about him that was just too strange to be ignored. He was already working on something, and it looked like a massively challenging and complex potion, too…there were ingredients and equipment spread across all of his table, taking up nearly its entire surface even though each table was meant to accommodate four people and their supplies. Thick, mossy-green steam was billowing up from the boy's cauldron. John approached him slowly, watching as the boy stirred his potion methodically. When John was level with him and standing next to his table, he could see that the boy was staring at his work and barely blinking. He didn't seem to have glanced up at the newcomer at all the whole time. He had a pale face with bangs that casually fell over his forehead, and the eyes that were so focused on his work were green.

"Can I borrow your serrated knife?" the boy said suddenly, making John jump. The boy didn't show any indication that he'd noticed this. "Mine got too dull after cutting all these aconite roots." Indeed, John saw that the ends of aconite roots were scattered to the boy's left and there was a bit of carefully sliced root still sitting next to the cauldron. John assumed the rest of it had gone into the potion, which was now giving off a very faint hissing sound.

"Um, sure," said John. He turned away from the boy for a moment to put his bag down on the table next to his and search it for the knife. "Here," he said after a minute, holding it out to him.

The other boy tore his gaze away from the potion for a moment to look at John, and John couldn't help but feel slightly uncomfortable under his brief stare. Then the other boy's eyes were back on his potion. "Thanks," he said offhandedly, extending his hand for the knife rather than taking it himself. John placed the handle in his outstretched hand, feeling just a little offended.

There was another brief pause, and John was just about to turn around again and do up his bag when the boy said, just as suddenly as before, "Lestrange or Dolohov?"

John stared at him, looking at the face that seemed so disinterested, but had just asked such a personal question. He took a deep breath, and looked down at the floor uncomfortably before looking back up again. "Lestrange, but how did you know—"

"Ah, Molly!" The other boy interrupted, bringing his head up as footsteps announced the entrance of a third person, but without turning around at all to face the newcomer. "Your class is five floors above here and you're clearly behind on homework, so what are you doing down here?"

John turned to see that a rather petite girl with light brown pigtails had walked in, her robes hemmed in the yellow of Hufflepuff and her face flushed pink with embarrassment. She was clearly a first year.

"I brought you toast," she said in a small and sort of stumbling way, her voice uneven as she got the words out, but not exactly stammering.

"I hate toast," said the boy, craning his neck regard her over his shoulder. "So sorry. Not sorry. But toast is not for me. Ah ha!" he said excitedly, turning back to his potion as it let out a _BANG_! and a periwinkle cloud puffed from out from it. "Excellent!"

John decided not to ask exactly what he was brewing, but simply looked from Molly, holding her small stack of dejected toast, to this other boy, who was straightening his robes and then his posture as he picked up his wand to continue stirring slowly. "So," he said, glancing back at John again, then flicking his gaze to his open bag on the table behind him for just the briefest of moments, "good at brewing medical potions? How about healing charms?"

John paused in answering, surprised at where that question had come from. "Very good," he said, facing the boy square on even if he was still concentrated on whatever it was that he was brewing. As he answered, out of the corner of his eye he saw Molly walk out of the room, still carrying the toast.

"And Lestrange...had your fare share of heartbreak, then?" he asked slowly, now turning away from the cauldron to look at John, wiping his hands slowly on the front of his robes. "Experienced violent deaths?" his voice was slow, detached.

"Yes," said John, not exactly sure where this was leading. But there was something about this boy...he was so different from anyone that John had ever met at Hogwarts, so brisk and sure of himself, and for some reason John didn't want to just push him away like he now did nearly everyone else.

"Yes," said John again. "Enough trouble for a lifetime." Other students were finally starting to file into the room now, chatting and picking out tables on which to unpack their potion supplies.

"Want to see some more?"

"Oh Merlin, yes."

The boy gave him a wide smile, one that pushed up his pale cheeks to crinkle his eyes. Then he turned and began tossing things from the table into his bag, sweeping out a clear glass container into which he poured some of his potion. Then he waved his wand, a very long and dark one with some kind of twisting pattern leading to the handle, and vanished the remaining potion. In another deft motion he had jumped over the bench connected to the table and swung his bag over his shoulder. He headed for the door with a swift stride.

John didn't know what to do. He had no clue who this boy was or what he was trying to ask him, but there he was, just bounding off. "Oi, wait!" he called after him.

The boy stopped and pivoted to face John, raising his eyebrows expectantly.

"I don't even know a thing about you, I don't know your name..."

The other students in the room didn't seem to be paying attention to them as the boy took one step closer to John and then stopped. Then, standing completely still and staring at John, he began to speak very quickly. "I know you're name is John Watson and you're a third year here like me, but in Gryffindor, and both of your parents were magical but neither came from any of the old blood lines. I say were because they were killed last year by Bellatrix Lestrange, probably in mid December. You've got a brother who's worried about you, but you won't go to him for help, even though you're having difficulty coping, possibly because he's an alcoholic, more probably because he just dumped his girlfriend. You're good at medical potions and charms, but you're defensive work is shoddy to say the least, or has been since your parents died, at least, and you often can't get the hang of general potions that aren't more specific."

John stared at him, not knowing what to say or think.

"...It's enough to be going off of, don't you think?" the boy said, turning slightly and moving away again with another smile, but this one much more subdued and sly. The boy reached the door and was halfway out of it when he poked his head around again to look at John. "The name is Sherlock Holmes, and the meeting time and place are tomorrow evening, 8:30, room 221B." He gave John a wink, then swept away down the hall and out of sight, his robes flowing out behind him.

John stared after him, standing completely still for a few moments. Finally, he shook his head a little and then made his way back to where he had laid his bag to find that no one else had taken the seats at that table. The other students were leaving him alone, as they always seemed to now. With disappointment, John noticed that they were paired with the Slytherins again, after all. Across from him, the table that the boy, Sherlock, had vacated was still half-covered in scattered bits of ingredients and the students using it had had to sweep them aside so that they could put down their own things.

As soon as John sat down, the dungeon chamber's door swung shut with a _bang_! and the entire class turned. It was the new Potions professor. All the students had seen him at the start of term feast, but not since. His black robes hung over a hunched and brooding frame and matched his dark eyebrows and black eyes that glared at them all over a hooked nose. The room had fallen silent as soon as he had stepped in.

"There will be no foolish wand-waving or silly incantations in this class," he whispered in a voice that carried throughout the dungeon chamber. "I am Professor Snape, and I will be your Potions teacher for this year...assuming any of you have heads half worth carrying around on your over-proud shoulders, and assuming you have the minimum aptitude required for me to be able to teach you anything at all, of course..."

* * *

The next day, John set out to find room 221B thirty minutes before the time that Sherlock Holmes had told him to meet there. John had rarely paid attention to the room numbers at Hogwarts, and he doubted that many other students did, either, so he wanted to give himself plenty of time to make sure he found it.

Why he was so committed to being on time for this strange boy—or, indeed, showing up at all, was something that John stopped only briefly to wonder about. After Sherlock had swept away from the potions room so mysteriously the day before, John had thought about him and wondered about him almost constantly ever since. For some reason, he found him fascinating—different, to say the least. John knew next to nothing about him, but he couldn't help but see him as being multifaceted. Someone complex, mystifying, and definitely worth the empty time that John had felt he just had too much of ever since his parents died and he lost interest in so much of his daily life at the school.

John eventually found room 221B, an empty classroom on the second floor and opposite a large tapestry of Amy Baker, a witch from the eighteenth century who was an aged but skilled warrior. In the tapestry, she was depicted facing a large dragon, and after John arrived, a hand curved out from under the Common Welsh Green just as it breathed a spurt of orange fire at Baker. The witch dodged the flame as the fabric was pulled aside and Sherlock Holmes emerged.

"Ah, John," he said. "Good, you're here."

"Where did—there's a doorway behind the tapestry?" asked John.

"Oh, not quite a doorway, but an opening big enough, yes. Found it within my first week here. Anyway, we have a case to work on, shall we go?"

John looked at him in bewilderment. "What do you mean, a case?"

"I'm something of a detective within Hogwarts," said Sherlock. "People consult me with their problems. I solve them. I observe things no one else does, draw conclusions, and find the answers. And right now there's a rather big one that's been brought to me by Professor McGonagall."

Sherlock began to walk towards the beginning of the hallway, and John followed. "How do you...draw conclusions and find the answers?" asked John.

"When we met yesterday, I could read your family history and your spellwork in your posture, trainers, and half-opened schoolbag."

"Yes, and how exactly did you do that?" asked John.

"Simple deduction," said Sherlock, leading him past the various doorways. "The part about your parents was easy. Clearly you've been coping, or failing to cope, with a significant emotional blow recently. The way you held yourself and when you chose to come to the potions room said the trauma happened several months ago—you came to a class that's normally seen as harsh and depressing early, but without friends. The way you didn't try to take a seat and save the ones near you says you don't expect any friends to be coming, either, but not because you're the kind of person who never makes any—because you've lost them.

"I know you're not the kind who can't make friends because if you were so detestable, you wouldn't have been wearing the trainers that you were—they're not new, but hand-me-downs, and they're still in good condition. Your brother gave them to you but not because they were falling apart. He got a new pair, most likely, but was happy to give you the older, still-nice pair because he doesn't hate you. Those shoes clearly haven't switched owners any further ago than a few months, so they were given to you after your parents died, and not a forced gift, then. Older siblings almost always hate the younger ones, so if your brother doesn't, you must not be that bad. So you can make friends, but don't have any now because you lost them while grieving for your parents and pushing them away from you as a result.

"But how do I know the emotional blow was dead parents? Well, you're too young for it to be a breakup, breakups aren't devastating for people at this age, but you're feeling lonely, so someone's obviously gone. No recent student deaths inside Hogwarts in the younger years, and you're not Muggle-born, so it's unlikely it's a friend from back home. But parent deaths happened all the time during the war. Now, someone tried to call out to you when they entered the class, but you either didn't hear them or ignored them—again, a sign that you don't have close friends. They said 'John,' so that's your first name. Then of course you know this next part, the engraving on the knife you gave me. It says 'Watson,' so there's your name. Watson isn't the name of any of the old Wizarding lines, though, but your parents were magical if your copy of 'Intermediate Transfiguration,' which I saw peeking out of your bag, is so old and battered—it came from a parent, not your brother, since its owner was obviously much rougher with it than the owner of the trainers is with their things. The rest of your things show you don't buy second hand, however. Then there's your watch, of course—it's a traditional wizard's watch, and not something that Muggle parents ever buy for their children. So if your parents weren't Muggles, they must have been killed directly by the Death Eaters in the war, not just in mass Muggle killings. There were only three incidents where wizards and witches who weren't Purebloods deemed "bloodtraitors" where killed by Death Eaters directly and towards the end of the war—two involving Bellatrix Lestrange and one involving Antonin Dolohov. So—Lestrange or Dolohov?"

"And mid December?" prompted John, remembering how Sherlock had even distinguished the month.

"The first of the two events I'm talking about with Lestrange happened in September, before Voldemort fell. Even if you were devastated by your parents' deaths, you may have lightened up some after Voldemort disappeared. Not the case. So it happened after the end of the war, and the second incident was in mid December. Makes more sense."

John had shuddered at the sound of the name, but Sherlock had seemed not to notice. They were now exiting the doors to the Entrance Hall and walking out into the balmy September air, the sky still light due to the long days of the Scottish summertime.

"But the drinking. How could you _possibly_ know about the drinking?" asked John.

"The knife you gave me. There was residue from a wine cork left on it. Not something you did, clearly you aren't involved in that sort of thing, especially since if you had been the one to do it you would have thought to clean off your knife before coming to school. So it's someone else using your things, not your parents, obviously, but your brother. Why doesn't he just use magic? Because he's not just drinking, he's already drunk, and therefore doing things like unstopping more alcohol by hand. Oh, and the girlfriend, too...that was less deduction, more observation. I don't hang around the other Ravenclaws all that much, but I did hear about one of the older girls, named Clara, being upset over being dumped by someone named Harry Watson."

John had to admit that he was impressed by Sherlock's insight, but he also wasn't sure that Sherlock quite understood other people. It was the way he had brushed Molly aside earlier and spoke so brashly about John's parents deaths, and the fact that he even suggested Voldemort's fall might be enough to cheer someone up after losing their parents. Nevertheless, —

"That...was _brilliant_," said John, looking at Sherlock in admiration.

"You really think so?" asked Sherlock, sounding slightly questioning for the first time.

"Of course," said John.

"That's not what people normally say."

"What do people normally say?"

"'Piss off'," answered Sherlock, smiling again with a small snort. John couldn't help but give a small smile too.

"So where are we going?" he asked.

"Hagrid's cabin," said Sherlock. "There have been some dead unicorns recently, and Hagrid and McGonagall want to know who's doing it. Well, I suppose there are a few other people up at the school who want to know, too."

They crossed the grounds together, following the path down the slopped land. As they passed the vegetable patch, Sherlock spoke again. "So, did I miss anything? I didn't expect to be spot on about everything."

"Just one thing," said John.

"Oh?" asked Sherlock.

"Harry is short for Harriet."

Sherlock stopped still in his tracks, then made a disappointed sound and grimaced. "Your _sister! _I always miss something! Your trainers are unisex after all, aren't they? Ugh, women normally buy women's shoes."

John laughed, and it felt like his face lightened as it moved muscles he felt he hadn't used in a while.

"Your _sister!_" Sherlock was muttering to himself. "Of course, if I'd been named Harriet, I'd go by Harry, too... Did I get everything else, then?"

"Yeah, the rest was right," said John. "I'm impressed."

"Oh, don't be," said Sherlock nonchalantly. "We're coming to the impressive part in just a bit." He smirked.

John shook his head slightly at Sherlock's arrogance, but his was smiling too, and his smile was a little warmer than Sherlock's had been. They had finally reached the cabin, where two other people were already standing outside waiting.

"Good evening, Sherlock," said Lestrade politely.

"Lestrade," acknowledged Sherlock, nodding to him. "He's with me," he said, with a flick of his head in John's direction.

"Who is he?" asked Lestrade, looking at John and then back to Sherlock.

"Er, hi, I'm John W—"

"I said he's with me," said Sherlock shortly, narrowing his eyes at Lestrade. Lestrade held up his hands and raised his eyebrows as if to admit defeat and accept John's presence.

"Sherlock!" boomed Hagrid, leaning down to sweep Sherlock into a tight hug. John couldn't keep himself from wincing and tensing up as he watched—it looked like Hagrid could crush Sherlock's thin frame if he wasn't careful.

"I 'preciate ya comin' out here to 'elp, Sherlock," said Hagrid, looking down at him kindly. " 'Specially since I ain't seen ya all summer!"

"Should be fun," said Sherlock, smiling up at him contentedly.

"Fun?" exclaimed Hagrid. "Not a' all! We got three unicorns dead! An' more, if we don' catch whoever's don' it!"

"I'm sure the unicorns will be fine," said Sherlock calmly. "They always migrate if there's a serious threat to their habitat."

"Not if there ain't 'nuff of 'em to keep the herd goin'," said Hagrid darkly. "An' it's a crime ter kill a unicorn, ya know tha'? We got an' evil one 'mong us for sure, Sherlock. An' even you should be worried 'bout that," he said with a nod down in Sherlock's direction.

"Remember that you're not here for fun, Sherlock," said Lestrade seriously. "If we don't catch the killer, Hogwarts could lose its unicorn herd, and the reason they're killing them could be worse than that. It may not just be a student, you know, it could be someone outside the castle with much more sinister motives or much more powerful support."

"Yes, I'm well aware of the possibilities, Lestrade," said Sherlock. "Where are the others? Shouldn't they be here too, so we can leave?" he asked impatiently.

"Looks like there's Filch bringing them down now," said Lestrade, pointing to the castle. Indeed, Sherlock could see the bobbing light of the caretaker's lantern and three silhouettes following it. One was the stooped figure of Filch, and the other two were clearly students who looked to be about John and Sherlock's age, though it was difficult to tell from such a distance.

Once they arrived, John saw that they were both Slytherins, one of whom he recognized as Philip Anderson, a boy with a pale face and small, dull eyes, who was in the same year as John. Last potions class, John had noticed that Anderson's babbling beverage seemed to be issuing the most acrid smoke of all the acrid smokes the third years were creating that day. The other was a girl with curly brown hair who was shorter than Anderson and John didn't recognize from their year. He guessed that she must be a year or two younger.

"Alrigh' then," said Hagrid. "Seems that all of us's here now. Thanks fer bringin' 'em down, Mr. Filch."

"I'll be back in a couple of hours, then," said Filch in his nastiest tone. "To collect whatever's left of them."

"Tha' won' be nec'ssary," said Hagrid gruffly. "I'm fully capable 'a bringin' 'em up meself, Mr. Filch. And we're not goin' too far, they're goin' ter be fine."

Lestrade was looking at Filch with distaste, and Sherlock wasn't trying to hide his impatience with the others at all, so John was happy to see the back of the caretaker as he hobbled away.

"Alrigh', then," the gamekeeper said, hoisting his crossbow up from the ground where it had been lying beside him. "So, you two know what you're 'ere for," he said, looking at Anderson and the girl. "And you'd be Philip an' Sally, righ'?"

"Yes," said Anderson sullenly.

"Good," said Hagrid. "Well, towards the end 'o August, I found a dead unicorn in the forest. Dead unicorns like tha', they're rare, so it wor'ied me. Few days la'er, there was another one, and then I found one again jus' yesterday. Seems to be sommat in the forest tha's killin' 'em off, or else someone who's been goin' in ter the forest to do it. So right now we're goin' ter go in to the site o' the last one and check it out together, see if there's anythin' that we can use to find out who's done it. So it'll be the two o' you, Lestrade here, who offered Professor McGonagall ter help, and then Sherlock here who she got ter come out, too, an' 'is friend, erm...what's yer name again?" he asked John.

"John Watson," said John. "And I'm, er...not really his friend, I just met him, and...now I'm here...," he trailed off lamely, looking up at Hagrid nervously. He sneaked a glance at Sherlock, whose face flickered briefly from its look of boredom as he drew his lips together slightly. If John didn't already expect different of him, he might have said that the expression on Sherlock's face, for just a fraction of a second, had been hurt.

"Well, we're glad ter have ya, John," said Hagrid, clapping him on the back. John felt his trainers sink into the soft summer ground a few centimeters, but he smiled up at Hagrid gratefully all the same. The gamekeeper had just made him feel slightly more at ease. To his left, however, he saw the girl named Sally mouth "friend?" to Anderson, and her tone was mocking even if she wasn't speaking aloud.

"So it'll be all o' you, and then me an' Fang," Hagrid finished, gesturing to the boarhound by his feet. "Alrigh', then, let's head in," he said, turning to face the forest and beckoning to them over his shoulder.

The party walked for some time, following Hagrid and Fang at the front of the procession as they wound their way between the tree trunks. John noticed that at first they followed a path that had already been worn down on the mossy ground, but after some time they branched off from it and the trees started to grow even closer together. John inched just a little bit closer to Sherlock, who was walking next to him as they made up the back of the pack. Everyone walked in silence, listening to the sound of the leaves rustling overhead and the occasional owl's hoot as it perched in a tree or flew above hunting for rodents. At least, John was listening to the forest sounds. Whenever he glanced at Sherlock, the other boy seemed to not be paying attention to any of his surroundings, just marching in step with them blindly as his mind focused on a million other things.

Eventually they came to a small clearing, barely more than a large gap between trees, where a unicorn was spread out on its side on the ground. Even as it lay dead upon the forest floor, John could tell that in life it had been a magnificent creature. He'd only ever seen pictures of unicorns before in _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_, but here was one in the flesh, its coat silver and opalescent, long white hair streaming out to form its mane and tail. If not for the askew positioning of the legs and the eyes (deep pools of black that stared up at the sky emptily) it may have almost looked peaceful. The sight sent a shiver through John as he stared down upon it.

"Hmm," said Sherlock quietly from where he was already bent over the unicorn to inspect it. As soon as they had come to the clearing, he had strode over to it purposely, his robes sweeping out from his slight frame for a moment as he did so. The others hung in a sort of circle around him and the unicorn, Hagrid keeping up a low, but steady, monologue to Lestrade about how terrible it was that the unicorn had died while Lestrade stood next to him with his arms folded, watching Sherlock carefully and saying "mmm" and "yeah" periodically in order to be polite to Hagrid. Anderson and Sally were regarding Sherlock with distaste and derision, but John didn't think that they themselves were actually doing anything helpful, just hovering there. Which made him think that he, of course, should be doing something helpful. But he wasn't exactly sure what he _could_ do, so he just stood near the unicorn as Sherlock circled around it and occasionally touched it to inspect something.

After just a few minutes, Sherlock stepped away from the animal, looking satisfied with himself.

"What do you think, Sherlock?" asked Lestrade, interrupting Hagrid's speech.

"The unicorn was killed here, but this isn't where the killer first ambushed it. See, streaks, cuts, across its side. A little far down, so not something you would notice at first, but unicorns are extremely well-balanced, graceful, it wouldn't have scraped itself on branches as it moved through the forest if it were moving on its own, especially not in these places. No, not at all, so that means that the killer took it here, it was probably weakened or incapacitated first. Or she, I should say, not it, because this is clearly a female unicorn. And there, if you take a look at the mouth. Sores. This unicorn wasn't killed by the Killing Curse, that never leaves any marks, it was poisoned. There are several fast-acting poisons that would do the trick, even for an animal of this size."

"Brilliant," said John, looking at Sherlock with an amazed smile. Sherlock gave him a lazy one back.

Lestrade cleared his throat. "That's all very interesting, Sherlock," he said, and Sherlock eyes flicked over to him from John. "But how does it help us find the killer?"

"I'm getting there, and there's more," said Sherlock, holding up a finger and then going back to the unicorn. He was brusque, to the point, but to John he seemed to be enjoying himself immensely.

"I said this unicorn is female, but what's more, she's just given birth. Extra fat around the womb area, typical in mammals that have just had young. Unicorns don't reproduce very often, of course, so they generally nurture their young for several months as they grow before the mother and the foal separate. So since the young foal isn't here with the mother, it must be with other members of the herd, and I'm sure if you were to find the herd, Hagrid, you would find a newborn foal with the others."

"I've been meanin' ter check on them, o' course, after all o' this," said Hagrid, gesturing at the felled creature. "I'll hafta keep an eye out fer it, then."

"Big deal," drawled Anderson, speaking for the first time since they had reached the clearing. "So there's a baby unicorn somewhere. So what?"

"Anderson, don't speak out loud. When you do, you lower the IQ of the entire castle," said Sherlock, not even turning to face him. John suppressed a laugh.

"But what does the foal mean, Sherlock?" asked Lestrade with a weary sigh. It seemed to John that Lestrade must be fairly used to dealing with Sherlock.

"Don't you all see it?" asked Sherlock, looking around at them all standing there and looking slightly bewildered. "_Obvious. _Why would someone kill a unicorn? Healing properties. Yeah, your soul gets tarnished forever and all that, but _really_, those healing powers are desirable. And in a young foal, they're even more concentrated and powerful per kilo of bodyweight, blood, whatever, so the killer would be much more interested in the foal than the mother. So if he kills the mother, he takes away the foal's main source of protection. Even if the foal's with the rest of the herd now, the other herd members aren't likely to be as protective of the foal as the mother would be."

"Tha's true," said Hagrid, nodding into his beard. "Very true. An' if the foal gets separated, it'd either be easy prey for the killer, or jus' die on its own after a while."

"Brilliant," said John again.

"Exactly," said Sherlock, and it was unclear whether he was responding to Hagrid's comment or John's. "So the killer's going to go for the foal next. Oh, this is almost like a serial killer," he said, rubbing his hands together. "I love this, so much fun," he said with relish. The others were giving him odd looks, except for Lestrade, who was kneading the bridge of his nose with his fingers in a weary sort of way.

"If we find the foal, then, and watch it, we'll eventually be led to the killer," Sherlock continued, sounding much more logical again.

"That's incredible!" said John.

"Do you know you do that out loud?" Sherlock asked him.

"Oh—er—sorry," said John meekly.

"No, don't be," said Sherlock.

"So that's what you think we need to do, Sherlock?" asked Lestrade pointedly, trying to bring him back to the matter at hand. "Find the foal?"

"Yes," said Sherlock. "And if you watch it long enough, the killer should turn up. Unless he already has. In that case, get me again, I'd love to investigate it and see the new body."

There was something not quite right about how excited Sherlock was getting over the dead unicorns, John thought, but he still couldn't help but be left in awe of what was happening all around him. John had never seen this side of Hogwarts before.

"Well, o' course, I'll be doin' tha'," said Hagrid. "Gotta head in ter the forest tomorrow, then, it seems."

"Tomorrow?" said Sherlock. "Oh, it'd be much better to do it tonight. Much closer to the time that the mother was actually killed, you don't want to wait to tomorrow, especially since we already delayed some in coming out here tonight." Before anyone realized he was about to do it, Sherlock bounded off past them and into the trees.

"Wait, what—?" said John, staring after him in bewilderment.

"Yeah," said Lestrade. "He does that."

"No, 'e can't, not this time!" said Hagrid, looking alarmed. "'E can' jus' run off in ter the forest like that! That's dangerous, that is!"

Lestrade looked like he was about to say something else, but Hagrid cut him off.

"No, I'm goin' ter have ter go after 'im. You four have ter head on up ter the castle, you hear? All four o' you, now. Lestrade, you lead them, and make sure ya don' lose any o' them. You remember the way we came in?"

"Yeah, I do," said Lestrade. "Okay, don't worry about us, Hagrid, I'll get them back. And if we run into to trouble, I'll send up red sparks to alert you or someone else at the castle, alright?"

"Righ'" said Hagrid. "Good idea. I'll leave Fang with ya, then. _Stay, _Fang. Now I gotta go find 'im, so stick together, you four!" He shouted after them, already on his way deeper into the woods to go after Sherlock.

"Alright, you three, this way," said Lestrade authoritatively, beckoning and leading them back through the trees the way they'd come to get back to the castle, the opposite direction from the way Sherlock and Hagrid had gone. Fang the boarhound whined after Hagrid, but once it was clear they were all leaving he started trotting alongside Lestrade. To John, it seemed a big risk for them to be splitting up and going by themselves, especially since they'd had to deviate from the path in the first place just to get to the site of the dead unicorn. The way might not be entirely clear if it wasn't clearly marked out, and the dog wasn't much comfort. However, Lestrade seemed to have a good idea of where they were going, and he didn't hesitate when he changed directions as he lead them onward.

"Bloody idiot," Lestrade muttered under his breath once they had left the clearing, rolling his eyes.

"Who, Sherlock?" asked John.

"Yeah," said Lestrade, with something close to a wry laugh. "That fool has to just go running off into the Forbidden Forest all by himself, of all places."

"Does he do stuff like that often?" John asked curiously.

"Well, the Forbidden Forest is new, as far as I know, but yeah, he likes to just rattle off deductions at me and then just run away because his attention's switched to something else."

John smiled. "So you—er—work with him often?"

"Yeah, I bring him cases and stuff, whatever you want to call them. People come to me with problems a lot, and if I don't know, I just pass them on to Sherlock. He seems to enjoy it, alright, and he's bloody brilliant at it, even if he is crazy."

"How do you know him?" asked Sally from behind them, and John turned to face her, falling behind Lestrade a little so that he could speak to her. "He doesn't have friends. So who are you?" she asked belligerently.

"Why do you say he doesn't have friends?" asked John.

Anderson snorted. John decided that he liked him even less than he already did.

"I said, how do you know him?" asked Sally pushily.

"I just bumped into him yesterday. I don't really know him well at all."

"Hmm. Well don't," she advised him. "Don't get to know him. Stay away from Sherlock Holmes."

"Why?" asked John.

Sally looked at Anderson as if disgusted by John's ignorance. "He's crazy, that's why. You see all this? He likes it. He gets off on it. And one day, just being there isn't going to be enough for him. One day we're going to be looking at a body, and maybe not a unicorn body this time, and it'll be Sherlock Holmes who put it there."

"Donovan, I think that's enough," said Lestrade flatly.

"Why would he do that?" asked John. He was still judging this Slytherin girl much harder for being so rude about Sherlock than he was Sherlock for the things she was saying about him.

"Because he's a psychopath, that's why," she said. "And that's what psychopaths do."

"Donovan, I said that's enough!" insisted Lestrade again from the front. John turned away from Sally and Anderson and picked up his pace so that he could rejoin Lestrade. He and the prefect didn't talk for the rest of the walk back, but John could hear Anderson and Sally muttering to each other in nasty whispers behind them. He did his best to ignore them.

It came as a relief to John when they reached the end of the forest and came out near Hagrid's cabin at almost exactly the same place as they had entered from. He hadn't entirely doubted Lestrade's ability to find the right way, but following him like that had made John a bit nervous, even if they did have Fang. Upon clearing the trees, Anderson and Sally immediately took off for the castle.

"Hey, you two! You—," Lestrade broke off, sighing yet again for what seemed like the tenth time that night. "Oh, whatever," he muttered. "McGonagall or Snape can deal with them."

Fang quickly left Lestrade's side too, whining and trotting over to Hagrid's front door. When it became clear to him that his master wasn't home, the boarhound curled up on the steps to the door to wait there. Lestrade looked at him glumly. Then he turned to John, who was still standing there.

"We should go up to the castle now, then," he said.

"What about Sherlock and Hagrid?"

"Don't worry about them," said Lestrade. "Hagrid knows his stuff if anyone does, he's sure to get Sherlock out of there in no time. If he can't take care of the two of them, then no one can. Well, except maybe Dumbledore."

"Right," said John, feeling reassured. He knew it was silly to doubt Hagrid for something like this. Sherlock's head start had been only marginal, and the gamekeeper certainly had much longer legs.

John fell into step with Lestrade again so that they could go up to the castle together. After a few moments of walking in silence, Lestrade spoke.

"Look, I don't have to like Sherlock to see that he's a genius and he's dead useful," he said to John. "But I'm not going to deny that he can be a right pain in the arse."

"I suppose I can see where you might get that," said John.

"Yeah. Well. Like I said, he's a lot to keep up with. And maybe he's not who I'd choose as a friend or whatever, but you don't necessarily have to take what those two think to heart, Anderson and Donovan, I mean. They're not exactly the prime cut of Hogwarts, either. But just be careful, I suppose I'm saying. Don't get too wrapped up with him...like I said, he's got an attention span about this long," said Lestrade, holding up two fingers extremely close together. "And he's not exactly the most gentle of people, either."

"If he makes things that much more difficult for you, then why do you put up with him?" John asked.

Lestrade sighed yet again. For someone so young, he seemed to be under a lot of stress. Then John thought of himself, and for a fleeting moment he wanted to laugh sardonically.

They had reached the castle doors. "Because Sherlock Holmes is a great wizard," said Lestrade, opening the door that had been left unlocked for them and stepping into the Entrace Hall, still facing John. "And one day, I think, if we're very very lucky, he might even be a good one."

John stood there frowning as the prefect turned away from him and walked off for the marble staircase, hands in his robe pockets. After a few moments, John too entered the castle and closed the door behind himself, deciding to finally make off for the Gryffindor common room. For a brief moment, he wondered if he should go to Ravenclaw tower and wait there instead for a little while to make sure that Sherlock got back, but then he dismissed the idea. He was sure that Sherlock would be fine, and he was half convinced that he was with Hagrid already.

It wouldn't have surprised John if it took him hours to fall asleep that night, but, funnily enough, within a few minutes of pulling the covers around him, he was fast asleep, dreaming of the dark night wrapped in the silver satin of mystery.

* * *

"Oh! Er—hello! I didn't expect to see you here," said John in surprise.

"Obviously," drawled Sherlock. "Take a seat, then, John, you're holding up the class," he said, pulling John down into the seat next to him by his robes.

"Er, sorry," said John, shifting himself in the chair to get more comfortable and out of Sherlock's grip. "So Gryffindors have Charms with the Ravenclaws this year?"

"So it would seem," answered Sherlock. He had been reclined back in his chair just a minute ago as if it were a sofa in a common room rather than a straight-backed wooden chair in a classroom, but after seeing John he sat up and seemed to be injected with energy and purpose.

"So you got out of the forest alright?" asked John, turned to face him. Today, he noticed, Sherlock's eyes seemed blue. He wondered why that was, did they change color?

"Yes, quite," said Sherlock, looking slightly miffed. "Hagrid found me in about fifteen minutes. I think he gave me a lecture about not wandering off, but I wasn't paying much attention. Seems logical to assume that's what it was about, as I am fairly certain he was talking. No matter. Anyway, I didn't make it to the herd, which means that I haven't been able to find the foal and come up with any way of monitoring it. Hagrid said he'll look for it, and Hagrid's generally good at his job, but we're going to keep a look out, anyway."

"We are?" asked John.

"Of course," said Sherlock, waving a hand at him. "This afternoon we'll go to Hogsmeade together. Of the places the herd frequents, the one closest to the village is near the Three Broomsticks, so we can watch for the unicorns from there."

"Wait, but Hogsmeade visits don't start for another few weeks. Aren't the other people in Hogsmeade going to be suspicious of a couple of Hogwarts students are hanging around there?" asked John. The first Hogsmeade visit he would ever be allowed to go on was on Halloween that year, more than a month and a half away.

"Not the barmaid at the Three Broomsticks. I got her out of a tight spot a little while back, so she'll let me in, no problem," said Sherlock nonchalantly.

"Okay, I guess so," said John slowly.

"Excellent, we'll go down once classes end today," said Sherlock. He leaned back in his chair again, pressing his hands together and closing his eyes. To someone else, it may have seemed as if he were in prayer, but John could tell that Sherlock was thinking. He frowned. It was as if Sherlock were in his own little world and had only decided to check in with the real one briefly to get the response he wanted from John. Then he had checked right back out again.

"Now, welcome back, class!" said Professor Flitwick's voice from the front of the room. "I hope you haven't forgotten everything we did last year over the summer!" he said by way of beginning the lesson.

Charms class while sitting next to Sherlock was different from Charms class while not sitting next to Sherlock. John had always thought his charmwork was rather good, and, indeed, it was normally some of the best in the class, but Sherlock kept giving periodic criticisms.

"Oh, for God's sake, John, do you always try and hold the wand like that for this movement?" he asked at one point. Then, without any kind of request for permission, Sherlock grabbed John's arm, rearranged his grip on the wand, and moved it in what he seemed to think was the proper motion. "There. Do it like that."

At first John had found him overbearing and kept wanting to send back his own snappy responses, but soon he began to realize that Sherlock's way often worked much better than whatever he'd been doing before. They spent the class period reviewing charms from the previous year, and John knew that he was regaining the feeling of the spells much faster than he had last year when they reviewed after the summer holidays. It seemed that Sherlock, however, was doing less spell-casting and spending more of the class period with his eyes trained on John.

When the bell rang, Sherlock was the first out of the class. John had been going to say something to him along the lines of "see you later!" but it seemed that the other boy didn't find this necessary. John looked at Sherlock's empty seat for a moment, then back at the door where he had vanished.

"Look sharp, John!" said Professor Flitwick. The last of the other students were just leaving through the doorway.

John heaved his bag over his shoulder and left the room, still puzzling over the strange character that was Sherlock Holmes.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Sherlock had a free period after lunch that day, and he decided to spend it in a room that he had found on the seventh floor. It was opposite a tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy attempting to train trolls for the ballet, and what was odd about the room was that he didn't already have it included as part of his mind palace. Sherlock knew that he had been perfectly thorough in his initial survey of the castle, but he seemed to have somehow missed this room at first. He thought he had a vague memory of spending time here at some point during his first year, perhaps early in the year, some time when he had been upset. Had it been because of Mycroft? Bullies? Sherlock wasn't sure, he couldn't quite recall. But now, whenever he came here, he found a room perfect for practicing any spells he wanted to work on. He couldn't shake the feeling that the room had looked different in his vague memory of it, though.

Finally, however, he had a chance to try and produce a Patronus. Sherlock was confident that he's studied the theory well enough to be an expert. All he needed to do was cast one.

A happy memory. He needed a happy memory. Sherlock sat on the floor, his palms pressed together with his wand between them, his eyes closed as he searched his mind palace. What about when he'd solved his first case for Hagrid? There had been Bowtruckles and overgrown eggplants involved.

Sherlock focused on the memory and the pride he'd felt when he showed off his findings to Hagrid, who had been impressed beyond words. He thought the incantation to himself, _Expecto Patronum. Expecto Patronum. _Then he opened his eyes, raised his wand, and cast the spell. "_Expecto Patronum_," he said aloud.

Nothing happened. Sherlock stared at the empty air in front of him. Ever since his second month of school in the first year, he had always been able to produce _something_ on his first try with a new spell. Maybe he just needed a new memory? The time he'd found a beehive in the woods near his house in Sussex and spent a day observing them. He'd certainly felt content then.

Sherlock focused again, then waved his wand, saying "_Expecto Patronum!" _This time, a faint wisp of silver spell issued from the end of his wand. But it was only a wisp.

He stared at it, but in less than a second it had dissolved into nothing. When he had been Sorted into Ravenclaw! Even if the initial excitement had soon faded into disappointment, that _had_ to be a happy memory. Feeling confident again, Sherlock raised his wand for a third time. "_Expecto Patronum!"_ Another wisp. Sherlock managed to convince himself that it was a markedly thicker wisp from the last one, but he could tell that it was nothing near a real Patronus.

When he had first heard about the unicorn case? Jumping down the hallway from Professor McGonagall's classroom? Hadn't there been a moment of elation then? "_Expecto Patronum!"_ Another wisp. Apparently the brief elation he had felt wasn't enough to produce a Patronus.

Sherlock stayed there in the room on the seventh floor for more than another hour, trying over and over again to cast the spell. He checked his wand motion, the incantation, he sifted through memory after memory, but it seemed that he just couldn't do it. He was convinced that his theory was perfect; it had to be the memories. Feeling more frustrated than he had since the last time he had seen Mycroft, Sherlock eventually left the room. He would just have to use owls to deliver the message he wanted to send to John.

* * *

Besides Charms, John also had Transfiguration (just Gryffindors) and another Potions lesson with the Slytherins that day. Potions looked as if it were going to be a particularly nasty class this year. The new teacher, Professor Snape, was about as nice as a cauldron of congealed snake liver.

John was climbing up from the dungeons, glad to be able to finally put some distance between himself and the new Potions master, when he saw an owl zooming down the corridor. That was odd—John didn't know if he'd ever seen an owl inside the castle outside of the Great Hall. He was even more surprised when the owl flew straight up to him, dropped a small scroll at his feet, and then took off in the other direction.

John bent down to pick the scroll up off the floor, stepping out of the way of the other students passing through the hallway so that he could read it. It looked like it was a piece of parchment that had been torn off the corner of something else and then rolled up for the owl to deliver. When he'd flattened it out, he realized it was only two short sentences and a signature. _The tapestry of Amy Baker. Come at once if convenient. -SH. _John turned the note over, almost as if expecting more, then smiled to himself as he looked at the blank parchment of the back. He made to roll up the note again and then stuff it in his bag on his way to the tapestry, but then the second owl nearly barreled into him.

"Whoa!" said John, ducking. A few people sniggered, but the hallway was near clear. It might have been empty now, if not for the few people who seemed to be dragging their feet so they could see who was being sent owls _inside_ the castle. Feeling self-conscious under their stares, John tried to unravel the next note quickly. He was fairly sure that he knew who it was from. Sure enough: _If inconvenient, come anyway. -SH. _John flipped the note over reflexively, but then paused when he saw something scrawled across the back; he hadn't really expected there to be anything more. _Could be dangerous. _

John smiled again, shaking his head slightly as he headed up the last stairs and into the Entrance Hall. It wasn't very far to the stretch of wall on the second floor where the Baker tapestry was hung. He passed through the rest of the students who were headed towards the Great Hall for dinner, climbing the marble staircase and up to the landing. After John had walked several meters past the corner, however, something happened that he had not been expecting.

"John Watson?" A young woman who looked old enough to have just graduated Hogwarts had stepped out in front of him from one of the classroom doors that lined the hallway. She had wavy, chestnut hair and was dressed in fitted black robes, and she didn't make eye contact with him beyond a quick glance over his face; she was busy watching a quill that was scratching slowly away at a piece of parchment suspended in the air.

John stopped, facing the woman, but didn't say anything.

"If you'd just step in here for a moment, please," the witch said, pointing to the door which she had just come out of. John stared at her, trying to decided what he should do. He didn't think he'd ever seen her at Hogwarts before, and even though her robes were black, they weren't the standard uniform for students. But she wasn't a teacher or any other staff he knew of. Was there a way that he could refuse?

Since it had been several seconds and John had yet to make a move, the witch looked up at him from her parchment for the first time. She raised her eyebrows at him and leaned her head forward, as if to ask him what he was waiting for without speaking. Feeling as if he didn't have much of a choice, John walked through the doorway and into the room.

It was a disused classroom that was unexciting in and of itself, but this didn't make John feel any less threatened when he saw that there was already a man there whom he didn't know. John felt especially uncomfortable when the witch immediately shut the door behind him, therefore closing him into the room with the unknown man.

At the sound of the door shutting, the man turned around to face John and the young Gryffindor realized that he _did_ know him, or had at least seen him before. Both him and the umbrella he was twirling by the handle.

"You're...Mycroft Holmes," said John slowly.

"Good to see you, Mr. Watson," said the man with an unreassuring smile. John remembered the time that he met him briefly nearly two years before, outside the Great Hall on Christmas, and what Anisha had told him about people staying away from this man. If Mycroft Holmes had been Head Boy then, then he could only be nineteen or so now, but there was something about him in his immaculate, dark pinstriped robes and the way he held himself made him seem much older than nineteen.

_Holmes. _Was he related to Sherlock?

"Let us not waste time with pleasantries, John," said Mycroft, and John noted the switch to his first name. "I understand that you've...teamed up with Sherlock Holmes recently."

"I'm not sure I'd call it that," said John cautiously. "I only met him two days ago."

"And since then you've agreed to sneak out of school with him alone and now you're solving crimes together. If you both weren't so young, I might be expecting a happy announcement by the end of the week."

John felt himself blush, feeling uneasy in this situation in yet one more new way.

"I'd like to know what he's up to," said Mycroft flatly, a shaft of dust illuminated next to him by the light from one of the classroom windows. "How would you feel periodically giving me some information?"

"What kind of information?" asked John, not entirely sure what else to say or what to make of where this was going.

"Oh, nothing you'd feel uncomfortable with. You just seem to be getting rather close to him rather quickly."

"I'm not sure I'd call it close."

"You're close, for Sherlock," said Mycroft Holmes shortly. He stared right into John's face. "You've met him. How many friends do you imagine he has?"

John paused before responding. Everyone kept stressing the fact that Sherlock didn't have friends. Well, neither did John, it seemed, so why was it such a big deal? "So what does that make you?" he asked.

Mycroft smiled, looking down at his umbrella for a moment. He brought it up and inspected the tip as he spoke. "The closest thing he has to a friend, actually. I'd imagine he calls me his enemy. Perhaps even arch-enemy," he said with a short laugh, bringing down the umbrella and looking at John again.

John didn't smile. "I'm not interested."

"Oh, come now, I haven't even mentioned a figure," said the man.

"You don't have to. Look somewhere else for your information. Why are you so interested?" John asked.

Mycroft Holmes answered slowly, still not taking his stern eyes off John's face. "Let's just say that I worry about him...constantly. But I would, for various reasons, prefer that my concern go unmentioned to Sherlock...we have what you might call a _difficult _relationship," he said delicately.

"Are you his brother?" asked John.

"Come now, John. Why would I want to tell you anything when you've given me so little that I didn't already know?"

John stared back at him. Then he turned, meaning to try to open the closed door from the inside and hoping that the witch hadn't locked him in.

"I know that your sister thinks you have trust issues," said Mycroft, and John froze. How had he learned that? Was he somehow in contact with Harry? "Could it be that you have decided to trust Sherlock Holmes?" Mycroft's voice was probing and slow, and John could practically feel his eyes boring into his back.

John didn't answer. After several moments, he started towards the door again. He had closed his hand around the doorknob when Mycroft spoke again.

"Be careful who you attach yourself to, Mr. Watson. Some people may pass through this school and only see the students passing by under brightly lit torches and suits of armor, the magic as happy and inviting as one of the castle's feasts. But if you walk through it with Sherlock Holmes, you begin to see it differently. You'd best make sure you're ready to see it that way, Mr. Watson."

John turned the doorknob and felt it move under his hand easily. He opened the door and stepped out again. The witch with the wavy chestnut hair glanced up again at him as he quickly shut the door behind him, but her eyes were just as quickly glued to her parchment again and she didn't say anything to John as he walked away rapidly down the hall, determined to meet Sherlock at the tapestry without running into anyone else unwelcome.

* * *

Sherlock had been waiting by the tapestry for several minutes before John showed up. Rather than let himself become irritated with having to wait, he decided to let his mind wander, and his thoughts were soon buried in unicorn social habits as he combed through what he knew about them. Eventually, however, he saw John round the corner and come down the hall towards him quickly.

"Ah, John," he said, once the other boy had reached him. "Excellent. Come on, then, we're going to the fourth floor."

"I met a friend of yours on the way," said John, sounding irritated. Sherlock disregarded his tone as unimportant, but had to suppress his surprise at what John had just said.

"Friend?" he asked, frowning. He didn't have friends. Everyone else knew it, but he'd be the first to say it.

"He said you may call him an enemy," said John.

"Oh. Which one?" asked Sherlock mildly, his face relaxing again.

"Mycroft Holmes. Is he related to you?"

Sherlock ground his teeth together, but didn't show anything else outwardly as anger welled up in his chest. What was _Mycroft_ doing inside Hogwarts...he always tried to stick his neck into places that were quite fine without it. "Hmm," he grunted in response to John. "Older brother. We don't talk."

"Oh," said John. Sherlock rolled his eyes. Very eloquent, this one.

"Did he offer you money to spy on me?" asked Sherlock.

"Er, yes, actually," said John, looking at Sherlock in surprise.

"Did you take it?" asked Sherlock, mildly interested. A few months ago, there had been a time when he had suspected Mycroft of going to Lestrade with the same offer. Sherlock was almost certain that it had happened, and that Lestrade had refused, even though he'd never said anything about it to Sherlock.

"No, of course not!" answered John, sounding shocked.

"Aw, think it through next time, won't you?" said Sherlock. "We could have split the fee."

John snorted, but Sherlock saw that he was smiling at him. This was an entirely new experience, for certain. Did John find him funny? Interesting. He wasn't really trying to be. Well, maybe he was, even he had to admit to himself that he liked to show off in whatever way he could.

"Why are we going to the fourth floor?" asked John. "I thought you said we were going into Hogsmeade."

"Yes, of course we are, but we have to take a way out that isn't the front door," Sherlock answered. "We'd never make it in and out that way without being seen. There's a secret passageway that takes you out of the castle and into the village behind a large mirror on the fourth floor, so we're going there."

"How do you know about it?" asked John, sounded impressed again. Sherlock smiled to himself. He was thoroughly enjoying this attention.

"I mapped the whole school and all its passageways out inside my head within my first two months here at school," he said casually. "I know where everything is, I could tell you another seven ways to get out of Hogwarts and into Hogsmeade. Filch already knows about two of them, though, maybe three."

"Wow," said John. "How did you learn it all so fast? I've been here just as long as you have, and I don't think I've even been to all the hallways in the school."

"It's like that for most of you other people," said Sherlock dismissively. "I just pay attention, and take note of the things that are useful. Where things are in the castle, and what even _is in_ the castle, are important."

It didn't take long for them to reach the fourth floor, but it took long enough for Sherlock to almost forget John was there. He was so used to going about things such as this alone that he had completely tuned John out of his senses within a few minutes. When they reached the large mirror over the passageway on the fourth floor, Sherlock started muttering softly and tapping its silver frame with his wand.

"What are you doing?" asked John. Sherlock whipped around his head, saw John, and then was brought back to the reality that there was someone else with him. Oh. Right.

The mirror swung open slowly, not unlike the portrait of the Fat Lady in front of the Gryffindor common room entrance, and Sherlock pointed at the passageway that had just been revealed in answer. It was a large cavern, big enough to hold more than a dozen people comfortably, and connected to a tunnel that sloped gradually downward.

"Wow," breathed John, his eyes wide.

Sherlock smiled, looking at him sideways. Then he jumped ahead and beckoned John to follow him. "C'mon then, let's go! Before someone shows up and catches us."

John smiled, and with one brief glance back behind him, started forward after Sherlock, who was already several paces ahead. Once John was completely inside, Sherlock flicked his wand over his shoulder casually and the mirror swung shut behind them again. He lit his wand to illuminate their way and then led John down the uneven dirt floor.

"_Lumos_," Sherlock heard John say behind him, and then they had the light of both of their wands. Sherlock didn't feel any need to engage John in conversation as they walked, and eventually they made it to the end of the tunnel. The tunnel simply stopped, but there were footholds carved out in the wall in front of them, leading up. The ceiling above them was carved out and made a short, vertical tunnel.

Sherlock turned to face his companion. "We're under Hogsmeade right now, this will come out along the outskirts of the town near where some of the houses are. Then we can walk to the Three Broomsticks and wait there to watch for the unicorns."

"Okay," Sherlock heard John say from behind him—he had already turned to climb up. After a few steps, Sherlock reached up and lifted the large log that was rolled over the top of the entrance to conceal it, just enough to push it to the side so that he and John could climb out.

He came out between a small plot of trees that was behind the picket fence marking in one of the houses' backyards and then waited for John with his hands on his hips. The other boy's blonde head poked out of the exit, looking around curiously.

"Come on then," said Sherlock impatiently.

"I'm coming!" said John, hoisting the rest of himself out of the narrow hole. Sherlock hurried to conceal the passageway again with the log, and then he started off between the houses and onto the main road, which snaked through Hogsmeade and would take them to the Three Broomsticks.

As Sherlock walked down the street briskly, he kept looking behind himself to see that John was trailing behind rather more slowly than Sherlock would have liked. At first he was annoyed, but then he realized that John, unlike himself, had never been in Hogsmeade before. Third year was the first year that Hogwarts students were allowed to visit the village, and the first visit of the year was scheduled for Halloween and more than a month away. Realizing this didn't actually make Sherlock feel any less annoyed, though.

When they arrived at the Three Broomsticks, as soon as Sherlock pushed the door of the pub open and held it aside for John to step in past him, Madame Rosmerta looked up from the bar where she was wiping glasses and beamed at him. She immediately put down the goblet she was drying and cried "Sherlock!" to welcome him.

"Hello, Madame Rosmerta," said Sherlock, before he was swept into a very uncomfortable hug by the barmaid. She smelled strongly of cheap perfume, and Sherlock wrinkled his nose over her shoulder, making John snigger. Sherlock knew, however, that if he wanted to keep getting favors from her, he had to put up with things like this. He resented that this was the truth for so many of his interactions with other people.

"How have you been, Sherlock?" she asked him.

"Fine," said Sherlock.

"And I expect you want a quiet spot for you and your date?" she said, beaming at Sherlock and then winking at John.

"Wait—no—I'm not his date!" protested John, his eyes widening in surprise. Before anything else could be said, however, Madame Rosmerta was sweeping them both away to a back corner as Sherlock directed her to the one he wanted, right by the window where he could observe the trees behind the pub.

"Everything is on the house, for _and_ your date, Sherlock," she said graciously, whipping out menus and handing them to both of them, with a pat on Sherlock's back. "This boy got me off a charge for poisoning the head of the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes," she said, smiling at John and nodding her head. "He was able to prove that the mead in question had actually been spiked by a visiting foreign minister and was meant for the head of the Department of Intoxicating Substances! He cleared my name," she said proudly.

"I cleared it a bit," said Sherlock. "You were still called in for questioning about the waiter you'd hired and who had been an accomplice. And the fact that you didn't check your own mead very carefully."

"I may have had to go to Azkaban if it weren't for him," said Madame Rosmerta impressively.

"You wouldn't have lasted a day in Azkaban," said Sherlock bluntly.

"I'm going to go get a candle for the table, it's more romantic," Madame Rosmerta said, turning her back on Sherlock pointedly and winking at John again. As soon as Sherlock heard the sound of her retreating heels, he tossed his menu onto the table and gazed out of the window, searching the trees with his eyes narrowed.

"I'm not his date!" Sherlock heard John call after Madame Rosmerta indignantly. Sherlock didn't pay much mind to this, however. It didn't surprise him that Madame Rosmerta made this assumption. He had never really expressed much of an interest in girls, simply for the reason that he had never expressed much interest in anyone. Sometimes if he met people several times due to cases they would notice this, and sometimes they jumped to the conclusion that it was because he liked boys, not girls, but was careful of showing it. Sherlock never bothered to correct them because he didn't see any reason to. In fact, he'd never actually really stopped to even think if it were a misconception to be corrected. Either way, it didn't matter to him if people thought he was gay.

"Might as well eat if you want to," he said to John. "We may be here for a while." Sherlock shifted on the banquette to get a better view out the window. Their seating was fairly far away from the nearest occupied table in the half-full pub, and it protruded out somewhat from the rest of the room in a small alcove that looked out into the trees—it would be perfect for spotting the unicorns if they passed by.

After a few moments, Madame Rosmerta returned with a small candle that she placed between the two of them and then lit with her wand. Sherlock heard John sigh slightly and glanced at him, seeing that he was staring at the candle in slight disbelief. For a moment Sherlock cringed inwardly. Really, John, was it _that_ strange to imagine that people being gay was such a comfortable concept for some people?

Sherlock continued to rake the trees outside with his eyes, looking for a trace of the unicorn herd or anyone else in the forest. It was extremely rare for people other than Hagrid to venture into the Forbidden Forest, and Sherlock was ready to regard anyone who did with suspicion.

"Keep your eyes on the trees, John," said Sherlock, staring out fixedly at them himself. "We're looking for the herd or anything else moving in there that looks big enough to be a person."

Soon after John had received the food he ordered from Madame Rosmerta, Sherlock thought he heard him break the silence in their small alcove.

"Sorry?" said Sherlock, tearing his gaze away from the trees briefly.

"I said people don't normally call their brothers arch-enemies," said John.

"Oh, really?" asked Sherlock, disinterested.

"People don't have arch-enemies. Not in real life."

Sherlock sighed slightly on the inside. John seemed to be one of those people who required small talk. "What do people have then, in their _real _lives?"

"Friends," said John. _Nope,_ thought Sherlock. _Don't do friends. _"Er, people they know and like...people they know and don't really like, but don't call arch-enemies, either." Sherlock rolled his eyes imperceptibly. John paused longer than he had before, but then spoke again, adding to his list. "Girlfriends, boyfriends."

"Hm, girlfriends," said Sherlock. "Not really my area," he said distractedly, looking out the window. Why bother with such a thing as a constant relationship you'd constantly be expected to pay attention to in order to maintain? Was their some sort of satisfaction involved? Judging by most of the Hogwarts students' love lives, no.

"Oh," said John. There was another long pause, and Sherlock had almost succeeded in tuning out from the conversation to keep his focus entirely on the forest when John said "_Oh!_" with much more inflection. "So do you have a boyfriend? Which is fine, by the way."

"I know it's fine," snapped Sherlock quickly, looking at John and frowning slightly. Why wouldn't it be fine? And who was this boy to tell him whether or not it was?

"So you have a boyfriend then?" asked John. He seemed unnaturally interested in Sherlock's answers.

"No," said Sherlock just as quickly, but with a note of surprise at where the conversation had headed.

"Okay," said John. He looked at Sherlock, then went pink and stared down at his food. He pushed around the noodles on his plate, but didn't scoop any up onto his fork to eat. Sherlock stared at him analytically for several more seconds. Why had his tone changed so much within the last few sentences, and why had he suddenly turned so shy? _Oh! _thought Sherlock, much in the way John had said it a moment before, as he finally linked the evidence together.

It was surprisingly difficult for Sherlock to feel brave enough to get the next part out. He normally had no trouble saying _whatever_ he wanted to _anyone_ he wanted, but for some reason he felt uncomfortable talking to John about this directly. "John, you should know, that while I am flattered by your interest, I'm really not looking for that sort of—"

"Oh, no, no, no, no!" said John quickly, dropping his fork. "No, I'm not interested in—no, well, I'm interested in you, I mean—no, er—I mean, I'm very interested in you and your, um, cases or whatever, but I wasn't asking...I wasn't asking about dating, or, er, anything like that, I just...you misunderstood," he finished feebly, staring down at his food again and turning pinker still.

"Right then," said Sherlock, nodding once and flicking his gaze around uncertainly. "Good."

"I was just saying that...," said John tentatively, "It's fine. It's all fine," he said more strongly.

"Good," said Sherlock again. Not really knowing what else to do next, he averted his eyes back out to the trees again. But wait—yes, something had been moving!

Sherlock stood up abruptly, jerking the table somewhat as he did so. "John, there, out in the woods!" he said, pointing. Had he really almost missed whatever it was because he was talking with John about _dating_, of all things?

"C'mon!" he said to John, immediately running out to the door of the pub and John hastily dashing after him. The two of them barged right out of the door and then turned as Sherlock led John through the narrow alley between the Three Broomsticks and the next building and then into the trees. Sherlock could just see by the dusky light where the leaves were still swaying slightly after the passage of whatever it was, and he tore after the signs of movement with John in his wake.

The two of them threaded through trees and deeper and deeper into the forest at an increasing pace until Sherlock started to hear the sound of hooves. Could it be a unicorn? Sherlock didn't stop to think about that longer than it took for his excitement to spike, and he grinned to himself as he and John chased the sound further and further into the trees. The trees were beginning to thicken, and Sherlock could tell that they were heading northwest and towards the Black Lake on the southern end of the Hogwarts grounds.

Eventually Sherlock caught a glimpse of the retreating leg of a horse, and the back of a man's head was just visible before the figure was entirely swallowed up by the trees. His heart sank. He stopped abruptly and thrust out an arm to stop John, who barreled straight into the outstretched limb. Sherlock was knocked off his feet, and both boys crashed to the ground. Far from being irritated, however, Sherlock started to laugh, and soon both of them were lying on the forest floor and rolling onto their sides, laughing their heads off.

Sherlock calmed himself down first, of course, and when he looked over at John he finally noticed that darkness had almost fallen completely. John giggled for a moment longer, then sat up as Sherlock had done.

"That," said John breathlessly, "was the most ridiculous thing I've ever done."

"You attend Hogwarts," said Sherlock, pulling a face. "What could be more ridiculous than allowing yourself to be shipped off to an unknown part of the country to study _magic_ with a bunch of people you've never met before when you're only eleven?"

"Yeah, but that isn't just me," said John defensively.

Sherlock stood up and pulled out his wand again, lighting up the area around them with his wand tip. He saw that John was now frowning at him as he got to his feet.

"You said that like you're Muggle-born," said John quizzically.

"So what if I am?" said Sherlock, frowning back.

"Nothing," said John. "So nothing, of course," he said.

Sherlock could tell that he was being sincere. "We were chasing a centaur," he said, pointing in the direction it had gone.

"Wait, so basically just something big that happened to move outside of the window?" asked John.

"Yeah," said Sherlock. "Although, it was significantly more likely that it would be either a unicorn or someone who had no good business going into the forest, as_ people _who venture in here rarely do and the centaurs hardly ever come that close to human settlements."

"You sound defensive."

"Not at all." Sherlock turned away from John at that moment however, because he could hear something else crashing towards them. He held his wand out at arm's length, ready to face it.

After just a moment more, however, it became clear that it was Hagrid.

"Hagrid!" called Sherlock, thinking it best that he let the gamekeeper recognize his voice. He could be quite quick with that crossbow of his, after all.

Hagrid thundered into the clearing. "Sherlock! John! What're you two doin' in 'ere?" he asked, clearly shocked.

"Thought we saw a unicorn, and we were following it in," answered Sherlock calmly. "Turned out to just be a centaur, though."

"Just a centaur?" repeated Hagrid faintly. "_Just a centaur_? Yer lucky he didn't turn right around an' attack you, you are!"

"Hm, lucky," said Sherlock. "I seem to be that a lot," he said blandly. John laughed.

Hagrid looked over at him, and John immediately cleared his throat and tried to look somber.

"Anyway, tha's not the righ' way ter get to them unicorns," said Hagrid, addressing Sherlock. "I've just been ter see the herd."

"Yes?" said Sherlock, his tone changing immediately as his interest was snared. "Did you find the foal?"

"No," said Hagrid. "The youn'est one among 'em was no older'an three, with its coat jus' finishin' turning ter silver. None o' the other unicorns seemed tha' upset, though, mind you."

Sherlock stared off into the distance past Hagrid, his mouth slightly agape as his mind rushed take in all that Hagrid had said and figure out what it must mean. "There never was any foal," said Sherlock softly.

"Sorry?" said John. "But you said that the mother unicorn had recently just given birth." He looked at Hagrid for confirmation.

"Righ', yeah, you did, Sherlock," Hagrid said.

"She had, she had," said Sherlock, waving a hand and turning around in a circle as he thought. "The baby must have been stillborn...she _had_ given birth, and you would have noticed different behavior in the herd if the baby had just been killed, right, Hagrid?"

"Righ' ya are, Sherlock," said Hagrid, nodding. "Nothin' out o' the ordinary with the herd. They was all goin' about their business like always, they woulda been actin' differently if they'd just lost a foal, tha's for sure," he said confidently.

"And the other unicorns killed beforehand...," said Sherlock slowly. He was staring at John now as he spoke, who just stared back at him bemusedly. "That means he's taking something from them," said Sherlock definitively. "I'm positive. The killer isn't after a baby unicorn after all, he's been taking something from the unicorns all along."

"But none o' 'em were missin' their horns, and none o' 'em 'ad any puncture marks or anythin' where sommat coulda been drinking the blood," said Hagrid thoughtfully. "None o' 'em seemed ter even be missin' any o' their hairs."

"No, you're right, Hagrid," said Sherlock. "We need to go back to the last one, and I need to inspect it again," he said resolutely. "There was something I missed, I'm sure of it."

"Students aren't supposed to be in the forest at all, Sherlock!" said Hagrid, his voice bordering on anger. "I should be takin' you straight up ter the school!"

"But you're not going to, Hagrid," said Sherlock. "Because you want to find this killer almost as much as I do, and you know that you need me. I'm how you're going to catch them, no matter how many school rules it takes breaking for me to get there."

Hagrid sighed heavily. "Yer righ', o' course, Sherlock. "I dunno why I put up with this, from a student like you...but heaven knows I need ter see this good for nuthin' slime stopped..." Hagrid sighed again, then beckoned for them to follow him as he walked off into the trees. "Come with me, you two," he said heavily. "I was just abou' ter bury her, too."

Sherlock made quick eye contact with John as he turned to follow Hagrid, and saw that the other boy seemed apprehensive, but also excited and eager. So the two of them trundled after Hagrid through the woods, following his winding path through the Forbidden Forest and in the direction of Hogwarts.

Sherlock soon realized that Hagrid had moved the unicorn's body away from its original position, and, sure enough, when Hagrid finally brought them to where it lay, they were on the outskirts of the forest and quite far from where they had been before. The back of Hagrid's cabin and his pumpkin patch was just visible through the trees, and there was a very small clearing that was just big enough for a unicorn body and the others to stand, presumably a place that Hagrid was planning to dig up so that he could bury the unicorn there.

Wordlessly, the Ravenclaw bent over the body again, peering at it closely. There was something that he'd missed before, something that he had to have missed...the killer had extracted something from the body, something that he needed...

After only a few minutes, Sherlock rocked back on his heels. He'd found it. "Part of the hoof," he said to the other two. This seemed to just confuse both of them. "The hoof!" He insisted. When neither of them reacted with anything more than confused stares, he sighed, knowing he'd have to explain more. "The killer has cut off a small part of the unicorn's hoof, just a little bit from each one. It's something that isn't likely to be noticed at first, obviously, so the killer seems to be trying to make sure that their purpose for killing the unicorns isn't easily identified. That's because it's not something obvious and expected, like just drinking the blood—unicorn hooves aren't used for much, but there is a potion, and it's considered extremely dark and not something that would ever be taught at Hogwarts. The Draught of the Defeated uses unicorn hooves. It's a powerful Dark potion that works something like a combination of the Imperious Curse and the creation of Inferius."

"What, so that means that it turns you into a sort of...subservient zombie?" asked John, horrified.

"Ignoring your blatant lack of eloquence, yes, John," replied Sherlock. "It can be used by Dark wizards to control the drinker and force them to do their bidding, but it also destroys cognitive reasoning and leaves the drinker in a trance-like state and removes their sense of self."

"That's horrible!" said John.

"Yes, no doubt it is, John," said Sherlock briskly. "And it's not something that you were going to know about, Hagrid, to check to see if any of the bodies were missing bits of their hooves. Only students who have done really advanced reading in areas of Defense Against the Dark Arts or Potions that border on actually learning the Dark Arts themselves would have come across it."

John was staring at Sherlock. Sherlock rolled his eyes yet again, and then spoke in a voice dripping with exasperation. "Oh, perhaps I should mention: I'm not the killer."

"Do people often assume you are?" asked John.

"Sometimes. Anyway, obviously the potion itself is extremely dark, which is why it's all the more important that we find the killer, not only to stop them killing off the unicorns, but also before they are able to start, or, more importantly, complete, the potion."

"You can say tha' again!" said Hagrid. "So d'you have have more ideas on how ter find them, Sherlock?" he asked.

Sherlock held up a finger, then bit his lip, thinking hard. The Draught of the Defeated was a complicated, laborious potion...it would need concentration, space to work...the killer had proven themselves clever, without a doubt, but also prone to make mistakes...and the places where the unicorns were found, and the position of the herd...they way Hagrid had approached them when they were in the Forbidden Forest, yes, the direction from which he had come suggested—

Sherlock's pulse had quickened as he raced down this train of thought, but once he reached his conclusion, he blinked several times, losing sight of the other two in front of them. He turned slowly on the spot, facing away from them, consumed by the realization of where the killer would be.

He thought he heard John or Hagrid say something to him, but it was indistinct and he'd almost completely blocked them out. He vaguely thought that he might have heard himself reply something meaningless back to placate them, but soon he was sprinting away from them and the forest and oblivious to their shouts after him. He could see his goal just over the hill—the Whomping Willow. He had to follow its passageway to the Shrieking Shack to find the killer.

Sherlock sprinted up towards the enormous tree, his robes flowing out behind him as he ran—_Drat these impractical clothes! _he thought to himself. It was a shame that Muggle clothing was frowned upon in the Wizarding World, because Sherlock had found on multiple occasions that it was much more practical than long wizard's robes.

Finally he reached the base of the tree, where he pointed his wand at the hectic branches and shouted "_Immobilus!" _The tree immediately froze, as if it were a gargantuan statue instead of a real plant, and Sherlock rushed forward to lower himself through the opening in the knobbly trunk, a gap that it would be nearly impossible to spot unless you were looking for it. Sherlock landed on the earthy floor of the passageway in a crumpled heap, but it wasn't long before he was back on his feet and moving through the tunnel as fast as its low ceiling and narrow walls would allow, growing nearer and nearer to his goal of the Shrieking Shack, which he was sure had recently become the killer's hideout.

Sherlock had been inside the Shrieking Shack before, of course. He had actually discovered this passageway in the opposite way from which he was now using it, by going from Hogsmeade to Hogwarts. It had seemed quite suspicious to him that no one ever entered the building, especially since the rumors that it was haunted didn't seem to add up. Sherlock had never been able to find a single Hogwarts ghost who had visited it, or in fact knew any other departed souls who had, either, and the house had been silent for several years. Once he had broken into the building, the passage to Hogwarts was obvious. It also explained why the Whomping Willow grew on the Hogwarts grounds—Sherlock had come to suspect that whenever something that dangerous was purposely allowed to stay on the school grounds, it was because it was hiding something.

* * *

"What's he doing?" John asked Hagrid in alarm.

"Jus' runnin' off to go an' check some theory, I suppose," said Hagrid. "He does that."

"So I've been told," said John, staring after Sherlock.

Hagrid snorted at his tone. "I'd feel sorry fer ya, John, if you weren' out o' bounds in the first place. What d'you think yer doin', wanderin' 'round the Forbidden Forest with Sherlock Holmes at night?"

John was only half listening. He could see over the roof of Hagrid's cabin that the Whomping Willow's branches had just gone oddly still. What could have caused that? _Wait..._thought John. _Didn't Sherlock go in that direction?_

"Oh, what?" said John, slowly turning his head back to face Hagrid. "Oh, right. Forest, dark...well, er, Sherlock seemed to have this idea about looking for the unicorn herd if it passed by, and..."

"So he didn't seem ter think that I could do me own ruddy job good enough?" mumbled Hagrid. "Well, I reckon that's jus' Sherlock Holmes fer ya, innit?"

"Oh, er, yes, well I suppose so," said John, not sure what else he was expected to say and also quite preoccupied with whatever had just happened to the Whomping Willow. He couldn't manage to shake the uneasy feeling that was settling in his gut, that Sherlock was in danger.

"I'm gonna have ter take you up ter the castle, now, John," said Hagrid, sounding uncharacteristically stern. "It's after hours, an' the on'y reason I'm not takin' yer straight to Professor McGonagall is that I owe Sherlock more than a couple o' favors at this point."

"Thank you very much, Hagrid," said John, paying enough attention to realize that Hagrid had just saved him from being in very deep trouble. He certainly knew how strict Professor McGonagall could be, and he'd heard about her settling some pretty harsh punishments on Gryffindors who were found out of bed at night. She must be twice as hard on students caught out of bed and in the _Forbidden _Forest at night.

Sighing, John allowed himself to be led up to the castle by Hagrid. As they walked up to the school, however, John was thinking about how he was going to manage to get away and back out on the grounds to see what had happened to the Whomping Willow. Was Sherlock behind it, or had the killer ambushed him and done something to both Sherlock and the tree? John shuddered to think what could have happened.

Hagrid insisted in escorting him all the way to Gryffindor tower, but once John had climbed through the portrait hole, he paused in the common room only to see that it was deserted. John was surprised, since he didn't think he and Sherlock could possibly have been out of the school for that long, but checking the clock above the mantle over the crackling fire showed him that it was just after midnight. Time must have been passing much quicker than it had felt. John dashed up the spiral staircase towards his dormitory, grabbed his scarf, and was out again.

It was going to be risky, but somehow John knew that he had to go after Sherlock. True, he didn't know for sure where the other boy had gone, but John had never seen the Whomping Willow freeze like that in all his time at Hogwarts and he was convinced that it had to be because someone had made it do so. It had to have been Sherlock.

John didn't know any way to conceal himself besides relying on his dark clothing and ability to stay quiet, so as soon as the Fat Lady had swung aside to let him back outside into the rest of the school, he felt his heartbeat escalate and his fear of being caught intensify. John crept along the corridors as quickly as he dared, praying that he wouldn't meet Peeves. After what seemed like the most nerve-wracking hours of his life, though it had really been only barely more than fifteen minutes, John had reached the Entrance Hall.

He took a deep breath before proceeding. The only way out seemed to be the front door...but that seemed like such a risk to take. Then John's eyes feel upon a door on the side of the hall—it was unremarkable, but if John had any luck, its room might have a window that he could climb out of instead.

To his relief, it did, and John quickly unlocked it and then climbed onto the window sill. He dropped down to the ground, then straightened and looked around. All was still dark and quiet.

John sprinted across the grounds to the Whomping Willow, which still wasn't moving. All he could do was hope that none of the teachers happened to look out of the window and see him crossing the grounds at 12:30 in the morning.

John reached the tree, panting, and walked around it slowly. What had happened, and why was it so still? He looked along the base of the tree carefully, and had done nearly two revolutions around its trunk before he noticed the gap between some of its gnarly masses of trunk and the ground. There was an opening in the trunk of the tree, and it didn't just look like an uneven part in the wood, it looked like it was the entrance to a passageway.

John took a deep breath and tried to steel his nerves. All he had to do was walk straight into the Whomping Willow, and...see where it took him. This had to be where Sherlock had gone. But this seemed mad! Why would there be a secret passageway _underneath the Whomping Willow?_ It didn't seem to make any sense. Then again, nothing had seemed to since he'd met Sherlock. It didn't make sense that John was so intent on tagging along with him, when Sherlock had yet to express much of a real interest in John. And it didn't make sense that Sherlock seemed to reveal a whole other side to Hogwarts, one that was dark and mysterious and...captivating. It didn't make sense that this was captivating. It was mad! And it didn't make sense that John was suddenly caught up in all of it. Nothing happened to him, wasn't that true?

_But then_, John thought. _The only reason I'm caught up in it is because I'm letting myself be. _He looked up at the stars above him, as if searching for encouragement or bravery. What he saw instead was that the top branches of the Whomping Willow seemed to be gaining mobility.

_Well, that's one decision made for me_, thought John. And he plunged down into the passageway.

* * *

Immediately upon entering the building, Sherlock could tell that there was someone else inside it. He carefully climbed the wooden stairs, growing nearer and nearer to his opponent. Then Sherlock could practically feel his quarry freeze somewhere above him, as if they had sensed Sherlock approaching them, and after that, he didn't bother to mask his footsteps and he strode confidently up the stairs and towards the killer.

Sherlock crossed the small landing and pushed open the door to the top room, its paint ancient and peeling. When he stepped in, he saw that it may have at one point served as a bedroom—there was a dilapidated four-poster bed in one corner, surrounded by dusty and moth-eaten hangings, and broken, boarded-up windows lined the walls. In the more recent past, however, the room had been transformed into a space for potioneering—a wide array of ingredients and potion implements were laid out across the floor, dirty cutting boards and knives, pouches and jars of ingredients at varying levels of depletion. In the center of the mess crouched a teenage boy. He was wearing Hogwarts robes with the Slytherin crest, and Sherlock could tell that he was a sixth year. The boy's eyes were fixed on Sherlock a soon as he came into view.

Sherlock could also tell upon sight was that this wasn't the same boy who had been preparing the potion that was now simmering underneath a small fire in the corner. He was there to prepare ingredients and monitor the potion's progress, but he wasn't its brewer. There was someone else involved, too.

Once Sherlock had stepped across the threshold, the boy jumped to his feet and whipped out his wand, pointing it at Sherlock threateningly. Sherlock, of course, had already had his raised upon entering the room, but the other boy was fast, much faster than Sherlock had anticipated—he had obviously been hired or coerced into this task for good reason.

"Don't move," said the boy, staring at Sherlock. "Or I'll blast you into so many pieces they'll never find your body."

Sherlock glared back at the boy down his own raised wand. "You have no reason to believe your reflexes are better than mine," he said, calmly. It was true, too—even if this other boy had been able to stand up and arm himself in time to match Sherlock, there was no reason to think that Sherlock couldn't rival him in a duel now that they both had their wands trained on each other. "We're on even ground, both with wands pointed at each other. You don't have the upper hand," said Sherlock.

The other boy seemed to realize it, but not want to admit it or show any sign of fear. He was grinding his jaw as he stared evenly at Sherlock. "You're Sherlock Holmes."

"Indeed," said Sherlock. "And how do you know about me?"

"I've heard what they say about you in our common room. You're not much liked there, I can assure you," the other boy answered.

"When you say 'our' common room, are you referring to 'our' collectively because it's the common room your sponsor also shares?" asked Sherlock.

The boy narrowed his eyes, but he'd allowed surprise to flicker across his face for an instant. "What makes you think I have a sponsor?"

"Please," snorted Sherlock. "You, brewing up a Draught of the Defeated? Not likely. All I had to do is take a glance at the stance you were holding on the floor there a minute ago to know that you're monitoring this operation for someone bigger. You've never brewed anything more complicated than a nosebleed cure."

"Someone bigger, yeah, right," said the boy with what edged on a smirk, but Sherlock could tell he was unnerved even if he was doing his best to mask it. "In one sense of the word."

"What's your name?" asked Sherlock.

"Why should I tell you?"

"It would take me mere minutes to find it out when I go back to the school. Professor McGonagall has me working on this case, and I'm sure that with the thorough description I'll be more than happy to give it would take her moments to identify you."

The boy bit his lip, but it was clear that Sherlock's words rang true. "Sebastian Moran," he said softly. Then he tightened his grip of his wand, attempting to seem more threatening to Sherlock as he held it trained on him. Sherlock had to fight the impulse to roll his eyes, as it would have made him take his gaze off Moran for a split second. Moran was three years older than him, but Sherlock was far from intimidated. He felt completely calm as he faced down the older boy.

"So why are you agreeing to go searching after unicorn hooves for a potion you can barely even understand, for some other student probably a few years younger than you?" Sherlock mused, remembering Moran's comment about the sponsor being smaller than him. As Sherlock watched the other boy carefully, he reached yet more deductions. "Ah, I see. You're dying, aren't you? But you've given up hope. That's why you haven't even been taking the blood from the unicorns. Well, I always thought that Hogwarts didn't offer much counseling or other support to its students." Sherlock could see something flicker in Moran's eyes and saw that he'd hit the truth directly. The deduction had come only after a moment's deliberation. There was the recent and quick weight loss, even though Moran had evidently been quite muscular beforehand, his stance and the bags under his eyes, other tell-tale signs of depression, and also the solidarity and desperation of his situation, here in the Shrieking Shack, tending a potion for someone else's plot. "What must your sponsor be _paying_ you?" asked Sherlock, with a slight frown.

"Enough," said Moran tightly. "More than you're ever going to get for all _your_ trouble, enough to send back to my sister."

"Ah, your sister. Of course, that's where the other motivation comes in. What, parents in Azkaban?"

Moran didn't nod or give any other outward sign of confirmation, but again, Sherlock could tell that he was right.

"Hmm, typical," breathed Sherlock. "So who is he?" he said more loudly again. "Your sponsor? Or she, I suppose, although 'he' is statistically more likely."

"There's no way you're about to get that out of me," said Moran with a dry curl to his lips and slight shake of his head.

"Right, but of course," said Sherlock, again resisting the temptation to roll his eyes. Sherlock took a single step closer to Moran, knowing that he'd have to act somehow if he wanted to end this deadlock between them and have a chance at incapacitating Moran.

"Come any closer, and I'll kill you," said Moran, his eyes wide and crazed.

"Oh, I'm sure," said Sherlock lightly. He took another step closer, and Moran gripped his wand with both hands, his teeth bared and his expression wild.

Sherlock took another step.

* * *

John ran down the passageway as best he could, but it was quite narrow and he couldn't sprint the way he could in the open air. He was a good deal shorter than Sherlock, however, and he was able to therefore cover the distance of the passageway much more quickly than the Ravenclaw had since he didn't have to bend over so much. He came to the end of the tunnel, and was apprehensively looking around the room he had come out into. It was wooden and old, and John knew that he'd left Hogwarts far behind and had to be somewhere in Hogsmeade. He tried to control his heavy breathing and keep quiet—there were people talking upstairs, creaking floorboards also testifying to their presence. It had to be Sherlock and the killer.

It was clear to John that there was no way he'd be able to get upstairs unnoticed by the others so that he could surprise Sherlock's opponent. He would have to find another way to approach the scene, a way that meant neither of them would realize that he was there. _Well, I may not be able to surprise Sherlock _thought John, _but he's not the one I'm worried about noticing me. _He hurriedly looked around the bottom floor of the building where he had surfaced, making as little noise as possible, and found what he needed—a back door.

John slipped through it, barely opening it so that he didn't cause too much noise with the door's rusty hinges, and looked around the area around him outside. He could see the other buildings of Hogsmeade, but they were distant, and John was clearly on the edge of the village. He took in the aged house that he had just come out of, with its sagging levels and boarded-up windows. It only took John a moment to realize that he had followed Sherlock to the Shrieking Shack.

John clapped a hand over his mouth to stop himself from gasping or yelling in shock, but a moment later he realized that he was quite calm. He was tense, for sure, and he realized that his and Sherlock's situation was quite dire, and he had to do something quickly, but he could also tell that he had his fear quite under control. Though his heart was pounding madly, his hands were quite steady.

There was light coming from the top floor, where Sherlock and the killer must be. John looked around quickly, and his eyes fell upon a thick and tall tree nearby. It was knobbly, which meant it would be full of footholds, and it had branches thick enough to sit on that curved above the roof of the building. John dashed over to it and began to climb.

Soon he was maneuvering himself along a long branch that hung over the Shrieking Shack, growing closer and closer to the voices that were coming from below him. There was a large crack in the roof, and John carefully positioned himself over it so that he could see into the room beneath him. There they were—Sherlock was standing near the end of the room, near the door, his wand held out in front of him and pointing at the other figure, who John saw was an older boy, some ten or twelve feet away from Sherlock and with his wand trained threateningly on him. John listened carefully, trying to make out what they were saying to each other, but even without hearing their words, he knew that things were getting urgent and he had to act fast.

"So who is he?" came Sherlock's voice. "Your sponsor? Or she, I suppose, although 'he' is statistically more likely."

"There's no way you're about to get that out of me," said the other boy. It was impossible for John to make out their expressions from this angle.

"Right, but of course," said Sherlock, and John saw him take a step in the other boy's direction.

"Come any closer, and I'll kill you," said the boy, his voice an angry, frightened whisper.

"Oh, I'm sure," said Sherlock, and John's breath caught as he registered his tone. Sherlock didn't sound scared in the least, but to John, looking down from his perch in the tree and over the tense scene, everything seemed to be hanging by a thread. Sherlock took another step closer, and John gasped. The other boy looked ready to strike.

* * *

Sherlock decided to make his move—he might as well lash out at the boy now, nothing was going to change if he waited any longer. He saw, however, just as he opened his mouth and yelled "_Petrificus Totalus!" _that Moran had seen what he was about to do. The other boy moved to hex Sherlock just as he cast his spell, and his scream of "_Bombarda!_" sounded through the entire building. Sherlock whipped his wand in front of his body, shouting "_Protego!_" to cast a shield charm in front of himself, and at the same time he dropped down to the floor and the two previous spells he and Moran had cast at each other collided in the air between them and sent out a shockwave through the room that left scorch marks on the walls. As Sherlock moved, he saw a burst of red light fly down from the ceiling, and Moran was caught completely unaware by the spell. His body crumpled, and he hit the floor hard, unconscious.

Sherlock got to his feet and whipped his head up to see where the spell had come from. The tree branches above him shivered in the nighttime breeze, but there was no one there. Sherlock had a strong suspicion of who it had been, however.

He crossed to Moran's body and turned him over with his foot so that he was facing the ceiling. The Slytherin had been knocked out, stunned by the spell that Sherlock had seen come from the cracks in the ceiling and was convinced John had cast. The potion had been upended in the fight, and the cauldron's contents were now spilled in a boiling puddle on the wooden floor in the corner. It was isolated, however, and Sherlock put it out of mind for the time being.

Sherlock stood above Moran and looked down on him with distaste. Then he pointed his wand at the immobile body and said "_Ennervate_." Moran's eyes blinked several times, and he let out a moan and tried to roll over onto his side. Sherlock quickly stepped on his chest, however, keeping him from moving. The boy gasped in pain and looked up at Sherlock, his eyes now wide and terrified.

"Give me the name!" Sherlock shouted at him. "Who was your sponsor?"

"No!" screamed Moran back at him. "I can't tell you! He'll kill me! He'll torture me!"

"You're going to Azkaban as it is, if you don't die first!" shouted Sherlock. He increased the pressure of his foot against Moran's chest. "Give me the wretched name!"

"No, please!" wailed Moran.

"THE NAME!" Bellowed Sherlock.

"Moriarty!" cried Moran, his eyes screwed up and blood seeping out of his mouth. Sherlock took his foot off of him, and Moran's body went limp as he gave up all resistance and rolled over to sob into the floor. Just then, there was a _bang!_ as the door was nearly forced off its hinges and John rocketed into the room.

"What happened?" John demanded, panting heavily. "Did you get him? Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," said Sherlock, still staring down at Moran. "This one isn't, though. But I was right, he is the killer. His name is Sebastian Moran, and he's been operating under the direction of someone else, someone called Moriarty. We'll get him back up to the school, McGonagall and Dumbledore can decide how to deal with him," said Sherlock, his own breathing still heavy as adrenaline coursed through him.

"Who's Moriarty?" asked John. John was completely bewildered at the sight in front of him. Sherlock seemed unscathed, though slightly shaken, but the Slytherin boy who had been threatening him was now a sobbing mass on the dirty floor.

"No idea," said Sherlock. "Come on, let's tie him up. We can take him back up to the school together."

"Maybe we should get Hagrid," suggested John.

"Not a bad idea," conceded Sherlock.

"What do we do with the potion?" asked John, pointing at the corner where it was still sizzling against the wooden floor boards.

"We'll leave it here for now," answered Sherlock, casting it a glance. "It can't be used in this state, and it was incomplete to begin with, but we shouldn't vanish it or anything because it could be used as evidence of what Moran and Moriarty were plotting."

"Right," said John, nodding once and still tense beyond belief. "Right."

Sherlock cast a spell to bind Moran tightly in ropes, and then he and John levitated him out of the room and then back down the passageway to the Whomping Willow. Once they were out in the open of the grounds again, they stopped at Hagrid's cabin to wake up the gamekeeper.

Hagrid, it seemed, had not been asleep, since he immediately answered the door and gasped at the sight of the two boys and their captive. "What—Sherlock! What happened?!"

After a brief explanation from Sherlock, Hagrid hurried out of his cabin to accompany them back up to the school, and then all the way to Professor McGonagall's office as Sherlock filled both him and John in on the finer details of the recent events. Both of them were aghast at how serious the case had been, and how dangerous Moran and his sponsor were.

Once they were inside Professor McGonagall's office, the deputy headmistress rushed to meet them, then collapsed into her chair behind her desk and clutched her heart. "Holmes! Hagrid! Watson!" she gasped. "Explain yourselves!"

Sherlock repeated his story for her, and after he had finished, Professor McGonagall called for the headmaster to come down, too. Once again, Sherlock had to recount what had happened for Dumbledore to hear, beginning with his first foray into the woods with Hagrid, John, Lestrade, Donovan, and Anderson so that he could see the unicorn. The others were silent the whole time, and John watched as Dumbledore listened attentively and fixed Sherlock with his penetrating, bright-eyed gaze throughout his tale.

"Thank you, Sherlock," said Dumbledore, once he had finished. He had barely spoken upon entering the room and had remained silent all throughout Sherlock's explanation. "For telling me all this, and for your role in identifying Mr. Moran as the killer." Dumbledore paused. "I do hope you understand, however, that in doing so, you broke a multitude of school rules, and when you decided to investigate the Shrieking Shack you entered into an extremely dangerous situation when you would have done better to come to Professor McGonagall with what you suspected."

John held his breath. Could Sherlock be expelled for what had happened? Could _he? _

"As did you, Mr. Watson," said Dumbledore, turning to address John. John's heart plummeted as he looked back into Dumbledore's blue eyes, feeling x-rayed by his stare. "When you thought that Sherlock might be in danger, you should have immediately contacted a teacher to enlist their help in finding him.

"However—" said Dumbledore, his voice lightening just slightly from his grave tone—John felt something inside him look upwards in hope—"You have done a great service for Hogwarts today. It is clear that there was a plot within our school that could have ended in great harm to its students, and we were most fortunate to have you to help us avoid it, and so quickly, too." Dumbledore gave them a small smile. "Therefore, you will both receive awards for special services to the school, and, ah, let's see, seventy points to Ravenclaw for Mr. Holmes, and fifty to Gryffindor for Mr. Watson."

John gave a small laugh, then immediately covered his mouth. He wasn't going to be expelled!

"It is my profound hope, however, that we never have to witness something like this again," said Dumbledore seriously. "And I hope that in the future, both of you will set a little more store by the rules, and, much more importantly, your own safety." As he said this, John looked up into the headmaster's eyes and saw that they were twinkling behind the half-moon spectacles. Dumbledore was smiling down at them gently.

"And now, I'm afraid, it is quite time for bed," said Dumbledore. "I trust that you two can make your way back to your common rooms on your own, without being escorted?"

"Yes, sir," said Sherlock, nodding.

"Good," said Dumbledore. "Professor McGonagall and Hagrid and I will need to stay here to determine what is to be done next, especially with regards to Mr. Moran here. Good night, Sherlock and John."

Sherlock gave a nod to the headmaster, and then crossed to the door and held it open for John, who walked through it. Only when they were both out in the hallway and the door shut closed behind him, did John let out a long, low whistle.

"For a moment there, I thought we'd had it, for sure!" he said to Sherlock, laughing just a bit as he spoke.

Sherlock grinned. "Did you see the look on McGonagall's face while he was talking?" he sniggered.

John laughed alongside him. "No, what was it like?"

"She couldn't believe he was letting us off that easy," said Sherlock in a satisfied voice, still laughing.

"Shhh, we can't giggle! Not after what just happened!" John said, but he was having difficulty controlling his own laughter, and his lowered voice still seemed to echo in the dark and empty corridor.

"Well you're the one who actually stunned him," said Sherlock, regarding John with amusement. John thought that in this lighting, Sherlock's eyes seemed to be a deep hazel green.

"I know that!" said John as they walked away from McGonagall's office and towards the main chamber of staircases. "But you _did_ attack him first."

"Are you okay, then?" asked Sherlock. John found his expression impossible to read. He couldn't tell if Sherlock was genuinely interested in his state of mind or not, but from all he had seen of the boy, it seemed difficult for him to picture Sherlock asking anyone else the same question.

"I'm fine," said John, and he felt that it was quite true.

Sherlock smiled at him, and John smiled back, having just put a hand on the staircase docked at the landing. The two boys looked at each other for a moment like that. Then Sherlock broke the silence.

"Knew you'd show up," he said offhandedly, jumping onto the staircase alongside John. It detached itself from the landing, slowly beginning to take them up a few levels.

"No you didn't," said John, snorting at him.

"Of course I did," grinned Sherlock. "That's why I was talking to him for so long, I was just playing for time until you came along."

"No you weren't," insisted John. "You were probably enjoying yourself, you maniac," he laughed at him.

They were now at the landing on the seventh floor, the Fat Lady snoozing away in her portrait in front of them. They both hopped off the staircase, and John approached the portrait. "Novellus amicitia," he said to her. At first the Fat Lady did not wake up. John repeated the password more loudly and insistently.

"Oh, fine, then!" said the Fat Lady, giving a great yawn. "Come on in then! Though what you two are doing up at this hour...," she muttered darkly as she swung forward to admit John.

Sherlock looked at John with his head tilted to the side, and a half-smile playing across his lips. John paused in entering, watching Sherlock and waiting for him to say something.

"Dinner?" asked Sherlock shortly.

"I'm starving," said John.

"Excellent," said Sherlock, smiling at him. "We can get down to the kitchens with no problems, I know just the way to go. Once you get in, the house elves practically line up to give away food."

John's face lit up. "Really? I wanted to try and find the kitchens once, but then I never really got around to it."

"It's simple," said Sherlock, turning away from the portrait hole, and John doing the same. "There's a hallway near the Hufflepuff common room, and once you get to the picture of a bowl of fruit, you tickle the pear and it lets you right in."

"Brilliant!" said John.

"Well what was the point of waking me up, then, if you're just about to go off and leave again?" demanded the Fat Lady angrily from behind them.

"Oh, don't mind us!" said John. "I expect I'll be back sometime after breakfast, knowing this one," he said, grinning at Sherlock.

And so the two of them left, heading back down the staircases and to the kitchens. John wasn't exactly sure what he was starting, what new chapter in his life he was opening up. But as he looked at Sherlock, his eyes glittering mischievously under a mop of curly and unruly black hair, his mouth lifting just at the edges in a small smile in John's direction, John couldn't help smiling back and feeling his heart lift. He didn't know what he was getting into, exactly, but it had to be better than what he had been living with for the past several months, the existence he was sure he was now leaving completely behind.

**AN: I hope that all of you enjoyed that! Just so you know, I would expect there to be longer story arcs like this from now on (hopefully) instead of short scenes like I did for years one and two. Those should be outliers in the way they're structured. I wanted to establish both John and Sherlock as characters and give some background before having them meet each other, so that's why those two were done like that. Thanks for reading, and stay tuned! Reviews are always fantastic, if you would like to leave one with any comments. Happy summer!**


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